grey drive dream

because of

hands on steering wheel
to roam

it doesn’t matter how
to feel

no home
no lights
just motorcar

and a single luxury -
just hollow

space to wallow

and more dark & truth
than sweet to swallow

empty pillbox

unused pillow
and fresh tears enough
to grow

a downstream 


willow

The Grove

I woke. My people turned to trees.
Then wondered, if I had the chance
Could I, too, with the cold winds learn
  to dance?
 
It is the grove that gives us life.
The sun, the soil that we share,
The tears of those who watch o’erhead,
  their left-by mulch, subconsciously aware —
 
I sleep; my people growing tall.
Now am I just too fast to feel
The slower dance that’s only dreamed,
  but far more
 
  real?

walking dream

the morning shyly moves away
in waves of mist and cream;
and i move damp with spray and sand
into a walking dream

the dimly cast horizon sits
beyond the veil of sight;
where time stands loosely, hands by sides,
and day melds into night

your breath i hear, your touch i feel,
as light as feathered gauze;
the scent of ocean waves and kelp,
as hope – with its own laws

and so the mists of morningside
surround and pierce through me;
the walking dream of one who’s still
at one with
destiny

The Sacred Strand

My thoughts are often on the sea,
Or where it meets the land;
A part of my knight-errantry
As o’er the globe I’ve spanned

In lavender and purple hues
Brave Helios has set;
Across, its slanting rays diffuse
Into a violet

The footsteps of a pilgrim there
Upon the holy coast;
As sea-songs scatter to the air
The amaranthine host

Then I sit down upon the sand
And face towards the sea:
A moment on the sacred strand
Of pure
Tranquility

The Dream of the Blue Motel

I do not dream tonight about the sky,
I dream instead of moonlight on a pool;
A place I’ve never been to, never seen —
A motel, somewhere, faintly lit with gold.

I grew up in a world that loved motels.
As station wagons roamed across the land,
My people transmigrated every year;
A new soul found on every three week trip.

But here went forty years, and I have seen
More luxury than my dad ever did:
And motels are a cheap alternative
That we pass by for some other resort.

But yet, in blue and gold under the moon
I dream of what was beauty
And still is


(Is it bad when you start to dream in blank verse? – Owen)

A Spectral Existence

… my dreams…

The wind barely sweeps o’er the grass
And only slightly ripples the puddles
Moonlight slouches out from behind the clouds
As I drift through the yard unseen

Darkness holds the earth
Daylight memories of this place break in
Like bursts of static
Only to be swallowed up by the night

And lonely I am as only one can be
Whose dreams pull him back to the scene
Of his biggest mistakes, his secret sorrows
Turned now into
An almost-silent movie