where am I going tonight?
crowded subway train
full of sleepy dreamers;
it never stops, but they get off.
somehow I don’t notice,
surrounded by nightclothes
that are empty.
I fly away
to a mountain top
and let my breath fall
to the valley,
happy in sleep.
beautiful bat wings,
and strength,
watching plants grow,
my mountain eroding,
everything melting.
I plunge to tear out the heart
of an evil man,
crashing against his hairy breast
and falling
to the pavement,
staring at his shoes
as he, not noticing, watered his lawn
into my eyes.
Posts Tagged ‘Dream’
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I have killed you before in a dream
and I was savagely happy with myself
playing in the sandbox alone
with my painted toys and
turning the hose on and washing
your blood from my dump truck.
don’t worry if I dream without you
I won’t care if you hang me
by my left foot and burn my skin
off until I bleed wetly, just
a pinata even after we’re dead
I regenerate, you’ll heal, I’ll get you
a taxi.
yeah, I like to wander through the blue haze
right before bedtime looking a-
round at all these fuzzy shapes that are way
out of focus and measuring how sleep-
y I am and how tired I am and
how exhausted I am and how ever
else I feel in the repair department.
it’s sort of liquidly buoyed stum-
bling about through blue and orange and purple
fuzz Jello spots feeling woozy and diz-
zy but not quite ready to go wholly
to the dream lands and really wake up and
exert again but you know being just
sort of stoned and content that you’re going to
fall asleep sometime soon and you’re not rush-
ing it so I always like to smile as
I’m trying to think of something to write
about before the locomotive of
the sleep beast pushes my head underwa-
ter again and I relearn how to breathe.
Mind Shaft
Posted: January 18, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dark, Dream, Girl, God, Innocent, Lies, Paper, Sick
he didn’t need to be shown how to do
things; he was good at figuring
them out – taking them apart and
putting them back together. he read a
lot when he was innocent and
believed too much for his own good.
too many times he became impatient
and cursed himself for imagined
wrongs, blaming his insensitivity for
his lack of social standing. he tried so
hard he made himself sick with lies
and falsehoods, having to artificially calm
the turbulence of his stomach with
deadened-nerves ignorance. he knew,
or rather hoped (he didn’t allow himself
the luxury of self-confidence) that someday
he would be given the chance to show
another human being what he thought
love was. it was too big, too heady, too
encompassing to try to contain within the
bars of paper and ink, but he knew
exactly what it was and how he would
go about making it work and dreamed
handsome times and admirable occasions.
love would turn some special girl’s eyes
to his if only he had the patience to
hang on to the blades of grass growing
in the cracks of the snail-track laden
sidewalk. he secretly prayed to a god
he honestly doubted and looked for
some reason besides cowardice to not
get life over with and found that he had
matches of distraction at the bottom of
his dismal mind shaft. every time he went
into the dark and felt the slimy pitch
of the terror of being alone, he could find
another match to sputter and flicker
in the cold depths to keep his faith until
someone would come along to crank up
the bucket form the bottom of the well.
A Small Purple Linear Stain
Posted: January 9, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dream, Eye, Fog, Pain, Rain, Scream, Sleep
I can’t help thinking what
I’ve done to make you scream
So loud, like that, that night;
It was so much a dream.
But when I woke from fog,
My face was moist with sleep.
My hands dug in the earth
To climb the mountain steep.
Embankments grey and high,
I felt the tracks of rain.
A snail has crossed my eyes
To salve the lines of pain.
[iambic trimeter, even!]
Hopes and Dreams
Posted: December 11, 1990 in PoetryTags: Boy, Dream, Dreams, Gold, Heart, Hope, Imagination, Joy, Love, Magic, Michael, Purple, Time, Trees
There once was a little boy
Who had dreams which danced behind his eyes
Of magic golden cities,
People merry under purple skies;
The trees and hills behind his house
Where the young boy used to play
Would welcome him joyously
Into their arms most every day.
The boy would lay for hours
Watching people living and dying
Delighted in the magic spent
To dream without even trying
But as the boy got older
His imagination began to soften
And out to the hills and trees
He wouldn’t come as often.
Plastic guns and army soldiers,
Matchbox Cars and other toys
Stole the love and keen attention
From the helpless little boy.
The sun set silent one day
Over the lonesome trees and hills
The happy boughs and glades
Wept and sadly stood still.
No one heard their hearts break,
No one knows how they cried,
But some dreams were lost somewhere in time
When the child in Michael died.
Alone
Posted: June 21, 1987 in PoetryTags: Clouds, Dream, Happy, Island, Light, Love, Man, Ocean, Rock, Sea, Storm
I’m standing alone, hunched between the rocks
As the pounding surf breaks all around
Solitary, singly, lastly, only
Buffeted yet still very unfound
Surrounded by water, seething ocean.
The topmost point on this isle.
Crashing, flaring, thundering, churning.
A straggler misplaced from single file
But through the gloom and pouring torrents
A beam of light swiftly cuts
Piercing, shooting, arcing, crackling.
Into this figure it conducts
This person is lifted into the clouds
Leaving island and sea behind
Waking, blinking, staring, smiling.
I’m finally clear of mind
Into the arms of that special someone
The newborn man now goes
Happy, dreamy, sleepy, lovely.
I forget all these past woes
Even though it’s not too much
And looks like not a lot
Hanging, swinging, scrabbling, falling.
This love is all we’ve got
And even on this higher plateau
Comes bad storms we have to weather
Clinging, clutching, bearing, hunching,
Supporting, helping, surviving: together
Alone.
Getting Down to Business
Posted: June 21, 1987 in PoetryTags: Dream, Flower, Idyllwild, Life, Mountain, Tree
Alright Mike, write some poetry
You’ve been trying to get a little sun
Consequently not getting anything done
Ah, but it’s nice to be free.
To laze and dawdle and procrastinate
Up in Idyllwild where you can hear the breeze
Rustling languidly through the trees
And you’re allowed to hibernate.
To get up whenever you feel
Waking up to mountain fresh air
With nothing to do you’re without a care
Sometimes I wonder if it’s real.
Don’t do anything – that’s the key
Pause in life to admire a flower
Because all I have done in the past hour
Is this dreamy little bit of poetry.
Serenity
Posted: June 20, 1987 in PoetryTags: Blanket, D'nofrio, Dream, Green, Light, Michelob, Mind, Night, Pen, Pride, Sand, Scream, Sea, Smile, Stream
As I sit here by a stream
I contemplate halfway in a dream
Of things and places and sunless seas
Of gigantic beanstalks and philosophies.
From the profound statements of the D’nofrio
To the mellow flavor of a Michelob,
From decisions made by our head of state
To these lines on which I contemplate.
Subconscious turmoil brings up fantastic stuff
Predominant phrases like “hey, life’s rough”.
Wearing a smile and a stupid stare
I look for ideas of which I can share.
These poems contained within my mind
Are many in number, and some unkind.
Yes I’m sorry to those I’ve offended
Let those faults be well amended.
But it’s true that they were meant to provoke;
Hey, I’m wandering again – this poem’s a joke.
I’m sitting amongst a bunch of rocks
By a small brook whose babbling talks.
With a little creativity it seems to say
Just be patient, let come what may.
So I watch and think and revel in nature
While my mind is really on nomenclature.
Twirling away, I write in prose
Where I am now, nobody knows.
Wait! Focus! I recognize this land;
Billowing waves joust with stoic sand.
The mind pans up like a movie shot
Alas, a Steven Spielberg I am not.
Sky fades to stars as day fades to night
And the horizon is bathed in incandescent light.
Speeding past planets in the universe
I find images of people who have been cursed.
Wailing and screaming, yet making no sound
I’m really glad that I am not sticking around.
Suddenly I’m alone in my bright green chair
With the ink of this pen it’s color it does share.
My feet on my stool, my notebook in my lap
Someone has written on the cover: CRAP.
Yet I still believe, and although I have paused
I take up my pen and I correct my flaws.
It takes ingenuity to live in this place.
Some go insane; they can’t handle what they face.
Just take a look at me for a terrible instance
Sometimes I can’t handle my very own existence.
I can be too foolish to swallow my pride
And I have even considered the aspect of suicide.
Many days in my life I would have missed
If it wasn’t for my stabilizing catalysts.
I owe it all to my security blanket
And now that I have kindly thanked it
One more thing I suppose I should write
Before I bid you all good night:
It’s fun to ramble on into infinity
When you are surrounded with such serenity.
When I start to write my poetry
A blank sheet of paper stares back at me.
So I let my mind run through many ideas
Like a daydreaming trance; you know how it feels.
And I’ll start to write on the spur of the moment
Not worrying about the meter, rhyme, or content.
But there are certain things I can’t describe
Too beautiful for speech; believe me, I’ve tried.
These couple of subjects, they are but few
But one of them has always been you.
Seadreamer
Posted: March 11, 1987 in PoetryTags: Captain, Child, Dream, Green, Hero, Imagination, Lightning, Love, Maiden, Ocean, Sea, Ship, Sky, Tears, Water
A little kid sits in a corner with a dunce cap on his head
He’s being punished for something someone else has done and said.
A single tear runs down his cheek, yet he still shows no emotion
For his mind has carried him away to a deep blue boundless ocean.
A captain and his trusty ship, he sails with imagination
Outside the world is stark and harsh as compared with his creation.
By wondrous people in wondrous ports, he’s beckoned to the shore
But landing his ship realizes a goal, and his fantasy will be no more.
So he sails along, taunted by faces that he has never seen
Past vibrant cities, rural towns, and verdant hills of green.
Impassive at the prow, wind in his hair, and sea salt on his tongue
His is the story of a Seadreamer, a tale of a hero unsung.
Stoicly standing, resisting temptation present in every stream
The captain knows the fragile state of his precious dream.
Also in this world is a pretty maid who can never touch the sea.
A similar fate as the captain has vice versa curses she.
Gleaming water, teasing depths, voices within the surf.
But as the captain, the maid is strong, and strives to show her worth.
The Seadreamer sailed across the sea until it met the sky
And there on lonely island was the young maid, rather shy.
Yet Cupid’s arrows impaled them both and turned their hearts to love
Blind inspiration struck each one like lightning from above.
The captain turned his ship to shore and the maid ran down to meet him
In their haste they each forgot they’d end each others dreams.
But love overcomes all obstacles, for now and ever more
The maiden’s foot touched the ocean as the captain’s hit the shore.
Though their dreams were disrupted, it came to no great harm,
For the captain sitting in the corner awoke with the maiden in his arms.
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