Portraits from Dreamland

What could you want?

He smiled as he lay back into the deep sleep

Of rainfall and every fulfillment

Memory he’d pillowed with before.

Only love has true power,

The smooth flavor and taste of love.

The change is his growing up-

No more tying a shoe even without

Thinking of the leather lace, the loop knot,

The child’s head kneeling over,  determination

Intact and absolute.

She remembers her own dreamland,

So far from his, they never knew.

Who knows, until we remember,

And that absolute reminder of love,

The gentle velvet hammer of knowledge

Which knocks sometimes so gently on the door

And windows of our mind to say,

Hear me? Hey?

Awake?  Come play.

There is no way to know

The journeys a mind has taken

Without the adventure eventually

Becoming a part of that mind’s game,

And ultimate joy.

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More Lanscapes and Visitors

A Series of Landscapes

Every character has his or her own mind. Yet the threads of time-after-time are interwoven within us as the beads on a necklace, the lace on a hem that rings the edge of a throat full of life and a landscape of flesh, the biggest organ we have, beautiful living beings.

Rush! The man inside the boy rushes on,

urging

The blood-rush of every urge

And surge. What can this moment mean,

 the next, my life?

The hurtling speed, even then

The sensation of my feet pounding

Pavement, breathing labored

With the satisfaction then of stamina

Growing, endurance building

Into a bank I can depend on

In the strength

Of its cellular investment,

Time after time,

And on the verge of

Stock exchange.

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I wish, I wish, I want..

He said in his dreams, a slight swing before dreamland

Actually, a verge, a lip of a line he liked to flirt

But had never crossed.

The line he crossed then was one he’d regret,

Until he learned that regrets are for fools who never learn.

Regrets are drips of rain that sometimes burrow,

Deep, but when roots are ready, soil and bloom

Will change and grow, become a smile to those who light

Upon seeing life, its burst through, into

Visible form.

Wild horses

Wild horses,

A phrase in my mind from

The beginning of time and

Patti Smith’s, a poet of song

And her own good time,

Her words unwinding

With clock and crucifix,

Images layering into

Memory

Of each little gift,

A ruby pendant,

A cotton shift,

The blue start of friendship

That never ends.

Dialogue on stage,

Identities forging

Into new days as nights

Pass and growth begins,

Like new beard on a young chin.

Love roots,

Passions rise and move

Like clouds through an endless sky,

Always creating,

Urging on, image after image.

Until death’s door a window, the weak

Hand still strong, loyal

To a love of life and holding on.

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