Archive for the ‘dream’ Category

It’s three o’clock and all is not well.

The half imagined sounds of ghosts and ghouls send images of nightmare skittering across your mind. An empty house in moonlight is an unsettling place, it is better slept through than be awake in, but sleep is elusive when your brain convinces you of impending horrors.

Images, stills, grainy half-remembered scenes from scary movies prey upon an overactive imagination. As a child you could throw a blanket over your head and it would all go away, or at least it couldn’t touch you. Whatever “it” was.
As an adult the word IT brings to mind Steven King and that brings up a whole host of unsavory thoughts and images.
As an adult you just lie there and calmly tell yourself that it’s all in your head, that everything is fine and nothings going to get you.
As an adult you can’t hide under the blankets and you know no matter how much you whisper sweet nothings to yourself “it” is not going away. “It” is going to prey on you, eat you up and steal your rest, your sleep, your peace, your sanity. Your just a tasty morsel on a feathery quilt-top plate. Prey for the irrational fears of three o’clock in the morning.

Sweet dreams; sleep tight don’t let those bugs bite and pray that you can get to sleep before “it” comes for you.


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As he sleeps he whimpers.
Small, startled mews.
One wonders,
What is the dream?
Is it a dream?

Or is it much more simple?
Is it the small insecurities that plague him
Day after day
And, when he rests,
Night after night?

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There is a stone cat who lives on my widow sill. At night I can see him silhouetted against the window. He stares inside with the self righteous judgement that only cats can express. He watches over the room; I do not think he watches over me. When the sun hits the window and illuminates the room his shadow is not there and I glance toward his place on the sill. It is empty.

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At My Funeral

At my funeral I want golden flowers from the tree of golden apples and I want Zeus to be in attendance. The grass will bow to the West and I will be laid in splendor at the  foot of the One Tree. I will be laid on a bed of pure white stone and surrounded by garlands of emerald. The mourners will be silent; the Wind will give the eulogy and my wife will place the Stone on my head.

The ground will open to accept me in it’s embrace  and I will go gracefully down to speak with the Lords of the Fields in their own places. Then the Twelve Lords will accompany me to the resting place of the King.

There we will make our camp and there we will make our peace. The King will accept me as one accepts a long absent son and I will rule in that Land beneath the stars on the other side of the wavering reflections of Life.

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Complex Emotion Swirling and Gliding


It’s Slippery and Rushing

It Pulls From my Grasp
From my Dictionary Entry.

It Pulls me with It
Carries me
and Drowns me

I am being given a swirly be a force that laughs as long and as loud as it cries.
This is me inside of me; the raw rendering of me that is
drowning me in it’s joyously gibbering madness!

I Feel Spring-Tight
Wound to SproingIng

Out of Place

Out of Time.

I Feel Full

Too Full to Spill
Out or Over

But Instead Burst!

Erupt Tears
and Grins

Hollering and angry beatings lay locked behind stony face. My face, which I barely control.
It threatens to SLIP!

Into Slobbering
Dog Grins,
Sleepy Lecherous Nods.

Behind My Breast Lays the Roiling,
Broiling Madness
of Unchecked
and Unknown

Today It wakes Itself
And my eyes go skipping
To and Fro

Skip to my shine!
To My LOO-HOO-Hooooo
Skip to My…

And my Words will not come
I am running out of Them
They are running out of me.


It’s all Slipping….

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Here is a desert, desolate and bright, empty of sound of wind of anything but dirt, dust and this conversation:

“Whew. Hot Day.” He remarked as he wiped the dust from his brow.

Morgan took the pipe from his mouth, “Ayuh. Just like the last day and the day before that and day before that one. This whole damn time’s been one long hot day.” And with that pronouncement he lit his pipe and said no more.

They continued to work in silence, nothing but the sound of their shovels biting into the ground. Behind them lay the finished product of their work, acres of it, miles of it. The whole damn planet pocked with their holes.

The same desert, some time later:

“Not far now, I can see the coast today. Couldn’t see that yesterday.” He said, taking a short break, leaning on his shovel; wiping his face with a kerchief.

“Ayuh, you can smell the salt in the air.” Morgan lit a match on the seat of his pants. “Not much farther now. What do you suppose the Power-That-Be will have for us after this?” Morgan asked as he busily puffed away.

“Dunno. What did we do before this? Seems we’ve been here for centuries, digging. Was there anything before this?” He asked, sinking his shovel in the ground throwing a spadeful of dirt next to his 3’X7’X77” hole.

Morgan shrugged his shoulders, “There must have been something before this but it’s been so damn long I’ve forgotten.”

The coast, some time latter:

“We’re nearly there.” He remarked, “I’d say about 5 more graves till we hit the beach”

“Ayuh. Judging from where the others stop I’d say that’s about right.”

“How many times do you think we’ve seen this beach? It’s obvious we’ve been here before. How many times?” He whispered, wiping his face with his dirty hands.

Morgan tapped his pipe against a rock then began to refill it. “Hard to say, it’s been so long I barely remember the other shore.” He said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Five to go and then what?” He asked, gazing at the sea.

“Dunno. I’m sure the Powers will have something lined up.” Morgan answered, looking back at the landscape of their handy-work.

The same coast, sometime later:

“How long’s it been?” He asked after swimming ashore, “Days? Weeks? Years? Do you think They’ve forgotten us?”

Morgan sat down on the beach to consider before answering. “Hard to tell. There’s no no night here, the sun never moves. We only lie in our graves, we never sleep. As for them, dunno”

Sometime later:

“What do you suppose we should do now?” He asked, his voice sleepy after laying on the beach for so long.

“Well I’ve been thinking about that for a while now. Seems to me there’s not much we can do. We’ve got no one to bury; the Powers have forgotten us. We can’t bury ourselves or each other. We can’t lay around on the beach the whole while, there’s no sense in it. So, that leaves us with only one choice.”

He had been thinking about it himself and had come to the same conclusion, “Fill in the graves.” He said, reaching for a spade.

Morgan smiled and picked up his pipe, chuckled as he scratched a match to life.

“Ayuh.” He said.

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Poetry in motion;
Left foot first, then right.
Jaws drop and pants
Become uncomfortable
And embarrassing.
The sway of her hips
The play
Of fabric on skin,
The soft swish of her dress
Bunching and un-bunching,
And teasing.

In my mind she’s slowly revealing
All her most sensitive parts.
In my mind we’re just two
And the room is dim gloom
Slightly diffuse.
The play of fabric becomes
The play of hands.
Skin on skin,
Soft swishing becomes
Soft but slowly growing
Reaching a pinnacle
A climax.

But then she’s gone.
Around the corner
Or out of sight
And my hands rush to cover
My own
Growing embarrassment.

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