Dreams

Getting and spending wasting our living  
slaves not to bodies needs but greedy eye
those fancying orbs set up high see things
beyond hand's grasp grows to be, highly prized!
 
Long before written records could be wrote
or passing time told by brass-necked tin clocks
the prize was on the hoof and in the wind
and hunger for it gripped belly and throat,
the price of that prize, sweat and thrown flint rocks
their only way to reach it, swift lithe limbs...
 
O to live again in our human spring
I hear this often in rhyme's soft writ sighs,
to have surfeit of things honest toil brings
wrought from beneath those ancient boundless skies.
 
Supping Adam's ale, wearing Joseph's coat,
stitched by Adam's needles, enough to mock
the fiercest weather, silver ermine trimmed,
bringing home newly slain black mountain goat
provender, round which your family flock,
just as their setting sun, begins to dim...
 
Richer by far then than banker or King
more satisfying than supersized buys
sweeter than advertisement jingle sings
" to have our product you would kill, or die;"
"You'll never be alone with filtered smokes,"
"food cooks superior in our fine crocks,"
"be sure to buy our triple filtered milk, it's skimmed!"
"And things go better with..." Oh, it's a joke,
on our spendthrift life, spent this way, tick-tock,
to keep some faceless folk's gold coffers, filled...
 
O to be with these long-gone folk, trading,
as they spend obsidian blades on deer hides
swop bird-bone flutes for pretty ankle rings
I desire both behind sleeping eyes...
 
But dream of fine white seamless buckskin cloaks
trimmed with white rabbit tails and black tailed brock
so softly supple will twirl, craft-folk thinned,
on which I'm allowed brief envious strokes,
for such, I would disdain all future frocks,
as I'm dressed, stroked by fur, yes, from the skin...
 
And, perhaps, meet an alien species
our neighbours then, we named the Neanderthals,
what words would we share, ideas what thesis  
on meeting those ancient woman and her man?
 
Those who were here many ages before us
what wonders would they be able to reveal
perhaps they would teach us the secret of trust  
and our inherent hatred begin to heal?
 
And secrets hidden in ancient flora
and tracks and trails leading to mind's at ease
and I ache to keep on dreaming this sweet dream
but wake to blow my flute 'gainst life's, fierce breeze...

Burned parts of skin
Dream in advance
Prophetic sense
in the audience
Ghosts of archetypes
Some angel guides
Mystery faces
that hypnotize
My abyss land
talks through my sleep
the mood is festive
and horrifying
Gates on earth
Beings with no voice
are observed by me
with startling joy

Silent hills
of dark alleys
Houses' trespassers
search of a moonstone
But this can't be
faces unknown
stories behind
my mind's blown
A rebel song
Lights from beyond
three entities soar
I'm home alone
My antique rocking chair
I restfully swing
people of glee
all aspects of me

Symbolic walk
upon a fence
Abandoned buildings
This is myself.
Emotional war
on a solid floor
A talking dog
I'm long now gone
Right through pure darkness
pre-knowledge's draining
the mind arises
like schyzophrenic

There's a static that shows, when eyes are closed,  
energizing the tinge in every dream  
and so simpatico with the moon beam  
as to be more than merely juxtaposed;  
much, much, more than coevolution wove  
through eons of savage savanna sleep  
waxing and waning our unconscious deep  
to become the neurological trove  
of classical cogency and power;  
from jealous Jove to each ennead muse
as a slow burning incandescent fuse  
In fullest force at the midnight hour,  
Only to fade at the break of day...  
Like a candle flame...the ethereal way!

I dreamt an owl landed on my head
before I awoke and wondered why
fowl so mighty would thereby tread
when it might command an entire sky?  
 
Has it fancied me as a totemist?  
 
So brief was the dream, and its midnight touch;
strange talons with which I must coexist
as now my psyche is within its clutch!
 
What is the purpose of this spirit bird
past being a bird that I cannot flip?
Has it trounced my last discouraging word
or just my scalp as a landing strip...
where both of us might rest for a bit
to clean our quills and hone our wit?

I still remember that dream, very vividly
Jogging in my childhood neighborhood
Along Washington Boulevard near La Brea
Running in the downpour
Like the rain was supposed to be some kind of metaphor
 
And gusts of winds would throw me against the fence
The ones that have post no bills
Like little, tiny violent tornadoes
Getting tossed around
But stubborn me, kept running, kept on that same path
Same pace
 
Later on I remember trying to interpret that dream
As life’s struggles beating me down
The feel of the water and debris hitting me in the face
Thrown to the ground
Thinking I deserved it
Or like it was some kind of test of spirit and will…
 
It’s been decades since I had that dream
Thinking back at the years of struggles and triumphs
I didn’t give up
I didn’t give in
I kept running through life’s obstacles
One way or another
I appreciate that dream as a sign of the things that came
…and went

I dream to construct a dwelling fair,
With my own two hands, in nature's lair.
In a jungle's heart, midst mountains grand,
Where clouds alight, like soft dreams land.
 
Amidst the wild, where creatures play,
No malice, vengeance, just innocence sway.
To live in harmony, with nature's sound,
A tranquil abode where peace is found.
 
I yearn to reside, seek and explore,
In this haven of mine, my very core.
Grow my being, let enlightenment unfold,
In the arms of nature, where stories are told.
 
If life's true goal is to find sweet peace,
From external and internal bees' cease.
Then nestled within the whispering trees,
True tranquility and serenity seize.

'Winter' cried out the lake as its mouth
sealed over with the thin ice of its captor,
the lapping shoreline turned to echoes of
thwacking stones as they rested before the thaw.

The synthetic crunch of powdered snow
gave me heavy legs, resting breathless
smoke stretches out from cottage rooftops.

It offered me a fireside sleep
burnt deep beneath dry stored logs,
mixed with pockets of morning mist
that hang me heavy on a distant spire.

I tasted the east wind spores,
dry lungs crack, condensing
through the loose knit gag that guards
each breath from sharp mornings.

A mind snapped branches in the forest,
silent as a gun shot to a deer.
balms drift melted onto bed linen
and wake the room into summers heat.