Tag Archives: dreams

NOT JUST A DREAM

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Dream bigger.

Seek more.

There are no limits

beyond the door.

Stand at the fence.

Find your spot.

Peek through the holes.

Let your interest be caught

by what you enjoy,

by what you have not.

It is all yours

wherever you look.

It is yours to explore.

One foot, then another.

Keep on going

until you discover

something you never

imagined before.

Let dreams guide your way.

Let them tow you along

to places of light and music

where you sing along.

Then dance through the night

and on into the light

emboldened and strong.

What a beautiful sight !

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HAIKU MORNING KISS

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As I awaken

I feel your weight above me.

You taste delicious.

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NIGHT SWEATS

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UKRAINIAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

AMERICAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

AFRICAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams lat night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

ASIAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

MID-EAST NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

EUROPEAN NIGHTS

Shattered dreams last night.

Tossed and turned with all my might.

No safe space in sight.

War never ends now.

We don’t know how.

We hold on tight 

to what we do know.

Afraid to let go

during uncertain night

and awaken in hopeful daylight.

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DREAM OR REALITY ?

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Is the line between dreams and wakefulness 

the same line as that between 

lies and truth ? 

Do those who refuse to be awoken

simply prefer to live in their dream world

where their power knows only those bounds

they tie about themselves

and feel able to loosen as they choose?

It is said the more educated one is the easier 

it is to believe conspiracy theories.

Sheer ignorance does allow a lie to fly.

But, worse, are those who choose

to remain ignorant of truth by staying asleep.

They decry being woke as if facing truth

is too painful, too uncomfortable, to know it.

Incongruence is unsettling as any scholar knows.

We search for meaning in everything.

We want the pieces to fit in the puzzles we work.

When the pieces do not fit, we become angry

and blame the puzzle pieces and take satisfaction

in wiping them off the table.

Perhaps, if we could be brave enough to truly see, 

the truth could set us free to choose pieces of reality

as it is when we are woke, not when we dream

of being more than we really are.

The truth is we are not perfect but we are enough.

Who told us we were not enough matters not.

Parents, wives, children, bosses ?

Conditional love leaves us bereft enough

to prefer the dream to such reality.

But, we are so much more than dreams.

if only we could realize we are loved, unconditionally.

Realize means living real lives.

And so I wake you from your dream

of superior being and dreamer of lies

to say I love you, just as you are.

Stay awake with me. There is work to be done.

A lot has piled up since you closed your eyes to truth.

I need you by my side to work within reality,

not with false pride; but, with opened eyes.

“You shall know the truth

and the truth shall set you free.”

And I shall love you through eternity.

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COMPANION POEMS

POET’S LAMENT

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I do not wish to get stuck

in the MAGA yuck and muck.

I wonder if those Germans

who watched fascism unfold

believed the stories they were told

by their brownshirt supported bully;

as the MAGA-hatted crowds

 who cheer our own

American grown version

of violent political rhetoric

mant to intimidate and eradicate

those whose power they fear,

and propelled by a sense 

of victimhood raised to an art

they plot and plan and strive

to drive Americans apart. 

A nation may not survive at all. 

Or, if it can survive it may not be intact.

And freedom may be forestalled

until the danger stops casting its pall

on its very survival.

So, instead of love and flowers,

sunny skies and dreamy hours

I write of dangers big and small.

I write of questions which call

for prompt response.

I note with dismay the loss of time to play.

I wish for earlier days

when citizens felt a duty to stand and say

democracy is under threat this day.

DREAMS OF HYPOCRISY

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The dream stayed with me through the night.

Over and over the image repeated despite

frequent awakenings disturbed by the sight

of four babies with open staples in their eyes.

No matter other images crossing left to right

in dreams arranging matters as they might,

allowing mind to gain much-needed insight.

Those babies needed someone to make right

harms foreseen if removal was not done right.

I struggled with ideas of how to help all night.

Finally, firmly grip with tiny tools and pull tight

became the answer as I awoke at first daylight.

Then a new thought occurred and set truth alight,

“…first, remove the beam out of thine own eye.”

But, then a new thought came to light.

The staples were open to grab whatever came in sight

and make it their own view, with new and greater insight.

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HAIKU

8/22/22

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Dreams are the blueprint

for life’s emerging story.

Each frame a promise.

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KENTUCKY

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Kentucky sits down pen in hand.

Words tumble unkempt as she

undressed yet and hungry

not simply to be fed

after arising from her bed

with food and drink

but, with vowels and consonants

in constant need to create meaning

from nightmares and dreams

of words which stream

like Kentucky’s flood

destroying all in its wake

as her words awake and beg

to live above the waterline.

The dreams may drown

but Kentucky’s words live on

battered senseless by the weight

of rushing water tossing them around

until they come to rest upon this page.

Kentucky will dry in these words.

Kentucky will survive in these words.

Kentucky is not gone in these words

but, simply moving on to better days ahead

as she rises again from her nightmare-tossed bed.

Kentucky pulls her blanket of dreams

about her trembling form

determined to rise above and move on

to dry land, where the ink has dried.

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PATTERNS ET.AL.

PATTERNS

Patterns tell stories

usually hidden from view.

Each morning I rise

and pick up my pen,

put it to paper

to see what thoughts

descend.

Today, a series of thoughts

seem attuned to one another.

Four poems gathered

but refused to do more

than make me yearn

for words to return

and tell a story

to help me learn

something.

Anything.

Perhaps putting them in a row

will eventually show

what they are trying to tell me.

so, here, I go.

SAVED  BY THE GARDEN

Saved again by the Garden.

Its views extend my own.

Who knows what will become

of the seeds I have sown.

Better to focus on new life

than to reflect on the old.

RUNAWAY

Hurry to the table.

Pick up the pen.

Let thoughts descend

before I pick up a comb,

wash  my face,

or even get dressed.

The words run off

too fast for any of that.

I struggle to catch the words

before they are lost

in mundane tasks.

Today, I was too slow.

DISAPPEARING ACT

Where do words go

when they run from me?

To another poet?

To another essayist?

Are they too uncomfortable to tell 

the truths I know so well?

Is the runner the words, 

or is it I who run 

away from words ?

LOST DREAM

A blast of cold air

swept over the sheets

and awakened me too soon

before the dawn

grew bright enough 

to see within the darkened room.

I could not see  the words today.

I only felt the cold and felt bereft

that the dream had gone.

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COLD SLAP

Another night of fractured dreams

led me to the door where meaning lives

alone in the night sky

where dreams blew through 

on cold winds of sheeted snow.

Swift yet slow, snow assaulted daffodil

who raised her face up and up and up

until deflated by the stinging slap of snow.

Then, daffodil, without a frown, bent down low.

With the dawn the snow is gone.

Cold remains. Its heavy space 

tightening down the hope of grace

from sunny skies and warmer nights,

with gentling dreams of peace

and days of  love’s delight 

to make the world right.

Whence sleep can, once again,

make dreams whole.

LESSONS IN THE SPRING SNOW

They laugh aloud, the daffodils.

as snow falls, they turn up their faces

to catch a taste of cold.

Magnolia opens wide her blooms

no longer tight, and catches flakes

of snow on her pink face.

The herbs and perennials close ranks.

Sheltered by mulch they give thanks

for the gardener’s attention

to the Spring dissension 

among the four winds’ direction.

a morning walk among the brethren

of the garden and its domain

builds trust and faith and hope

in the resilience of plant life.

and promises despite the strife

of pestilence and war

human life will endure.

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AGING DREAMS

There were no stairs to climb

between four floors explored

in dreams repeated through the night.

Questions roamed with me and more,

excited by the unexpected chance

to replace an old dwelling with new,

under reconstruction which winds blew

through openings in walls.

The misplaced furnace unable to heat

such a large space blocked a place

to park a car. No garage. Its saving grace

was its place on a city street

where I could walk amid constant activity,

unlike the sedate pace of my current home.

The mortgage would be the same

I was assured. No years added

to its satisfaction date.

Did I want this new home built on the old?

Or this new body if Jung is to be believed?

Indecision and insistent queries gave me pause.

Better to draw an old body into new?

Or stay the course more ancient but more safe?

A question for the ages?

Or simply for the aging?

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