An Untoward December

I dream in silence, dream of running children,
Of you, the way you were so long ago;
So long ago, some untoward December,
The cold before the falling of the snow.
You’re going faster, up and towards the mound —
The film is running, running without sound

There is no taste or scent, there’s only vision;
The colors are bedimmed, to black-and-white,
You turn, excited, asking me to chase you,
And in my dream, I’m ready for the flight —
For though the scene is silent, I’m assured
By how you looked, of what had been your word.

With travels great, word-billions said,
Somehow, there lives within my head,
A vision, like a silent show:
A place I was a hundred lives ago —

I dream in silence, dream of us as children,
Of you and I out running in the fields,
Out in the fields of untoward December,
Before our hearts constructed all these shields —
For though the world grows old and taut with violence,
I still remember you within
The silence


Photo credit : ID 72579129 Vadim Zakharishchev | Dreamstime.com

I Dreamed Of Sunrise…

I dreamed of sunrise and of you;
I woke, and found to my surprise
I was beside a purple sea
The color of your violet eyes.

Then where the rocks and sand gave way
I saw the sky above, below,
The sea the sunrise all in one,
And you, this lost heart’s

Undertow

Alsatian Dreams

Another restless night, up and down, up and down. When sleep finally came, images and stories poured in like floodwater.

There’s a girl with a bicycle in a field in France; it is August – August, 1939.  The war is just about to start, but she can’t know that yet. I know her in my dream, but in real life, she is someone I know now, a young someone who lives far away. But here she is France on the eve of World War 2.

It’s beautiful, but it feels ominous.

When I wake up, I’m trying to make sense of it. I spent almost nine months last year reading every WW2 book and watching every WW2 documentary and movie that I could find. And I had talked to my friend via text on Instagram earlier that day. So she ended up in Alsace on a vintage bicycle, wearing a vintage dress and hat as the clouds of war and genocide gather over Europe.

I am disturbed by all of this along several dimensions: the fear of impending doom, as well as thinking of all the people who were about to die horrible deaths 70 years ago this month. I’m also at least mildly disturbed any time a woman who is not my wife shows up in my dreams.

I look over to my right in the dark and my wife is there, lying on her side, breathing slowly.  Well, just because I’m having a bad night’s sleep doesn’t mean she should: so I get out of bed as gingerly as I can, get my glasses and iPad off the night stand and head to the other side of the house.

I know that dreams, for me, are often my brain trying to work out various issues that I’ve shoved aside. I do worry about some of my friends; the one in my dream, for instance, is someone I worry about a lot. Because life has been hard on her, and there are days I’m not sure she’s going to make it.

She also likes to be kind of stylish and vintage, if her Instagram is any indication, so maybe that’s where that came from.

I try hard not to worry about people whose lives I cannot really impact, but I seem incapable of doing so; when I manage it, consciously, my subconscious takes over and does it for me.


Later, after getting back from the gym, there is a message from my friend. Her health situation is deteriorating. We text back and forth for about 10 minutes. Then she’s off to get some sleep, and I’m off to get ready for work.

In the shower, the shampoo is running over my eyes, so I shut them. With my eyes closed, I see her again, in a French grain field, under sunshine and tall clouds, wearing a red dress and pushing a red bicycle. She doesn’t know what’s coming, but then again, no one did, really.

And none of us do now.

To Breathe You In

To breathe you in, and follow every curve
Of you; to take the time that is required
To know each space, and what then best can serve
For all you dreamed of, hoped for, or desired –

To focus on you, into you, in joining;
The rain, a steady noise upon our ears –
No more half-seeing, missing, disappointing —
Together finding asterisk frontiers –

For all that interrupt’s in off position;
No sound except the beating of the rain,
And those we make, those of our own volition –
This time, our own, and this space our domain.

    And then to wake, with sun’s first morning beam,
    To find you gone, and know ’twas just a dream.

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?