A Gypsy Dream

My friend, the gypsy, shared a dream
Of how she’d found a carnival,
A type of old tradition where
The best of their technology
Was brought to bear to try to make
A wonderland of lights and sorcery.

Where lovers could walk hand-in-hand
And feel excitement from the crowd,
As she did; with some unknown he
Whose face was handsome, though unseen.
But still the glow of love was there,
Among the scents of summer on the pier.

But love, she said, is not her way:
At least, the way that many think
That love should be: just one for good –
A night, a day, a month, a year,
That’s fine, but even in a dream,
She knew the carnival must have
An end – a letting go – a final turn.

She stared away, in shadows, then
She said, “I’m built for wandering.
The hands I hold are many, as
I make my way across this life.
I’m sure that dream was just my truth
As written on my neurons in the night.”

I watched her kiss the sunset, and
The gleaming colors in her eyes
As she arose to meet the night,
And leave me in a cafe seat
To ponder what a gypsy thing
That lives and hearts are in the very end,

That lives and hearts are in the very end.

School, Bike, and Dugout

We learn, we play, we join a team;
We work, we laugh, we live the dream

The dream of being more – and less –
Than simple lives of
Blessedness


Photo credit (and poem idea from) © Fiskness | Dreamstime.com – Old school, bike, and dugout

A Dream of You and Stone Steps

With every step another stone I
Breathed you into being –
The dream from too much rectitude I
Long had yearned for fleeing

It wasn’t for amazing nights or
Breathless flights of passion –
But just the hope to see you well a
Wish long out of fashion

And woken from this sight again I
Sit down on the floor –
To place my hands behind my head a
Sleepless troubadour

I dream of you I think because
I’ve watched you struggle bravely –
Your journey strange and frightening and
I would see you safely

Onto the other side of all that
Might be left for scaling –
For quiet streams persistence can
At last be our unveiling

I never see you get there though I
Am too soon awaking –
It is my spirit and not dawn that
Far too soon is breaking

So I am not to know this thing this
Brook that you must ford –
But just to watch as in a dream and
Then to sit here floored