Wow, it's morning. I feel refreshed, but I couldn't remember what I dreamed if my life depended on it. We all dream, but recalling those dreams is difficult. Writing about dreams then is almost impossible. Poetry in my mind is putting memory into words. Thoughts, emotions, mental images, feelings, spiritual nudges, and dreams are all materials used by the poet. Do we dream in color, or in monochrome? For people who never dream because they fail to reach the level of sleep where REM (rapid eye movement) occurs, or they go past that level without stopping, dreams occur during their awakened state. We call these hallucinations. At times dreams come very close to the surface and almost seem reachable. Poets use these moments to try and discribe the experience. I hope you enjoy the ethereal efforts.
In the poem, "Finding Purple Sea" I try and discribe a situation where deep
sleep is not achi
eved and the following day is affected by missing it.FINDING PURPLE SEA
On the road I do not sleep,
but rather nap in fitful blocks of time.
I stare through darkness at some plastic box
with glowing luminescence red, or green.
11:47, 1:29, 2:33, 3:08.
Times I would not see if you were here,
or I was home.
I miss my nightly kiss.
Your whispered, “I love you.”
My signal day is done and all is well.
I’m free to sail upon night’s purple sea.
Outward turn my inward mind,
shed reality.
Wake refreshed at break of day.
But on the road,
night goes on and on.
Till groggily I rise,
stumble into day,
yawn, and rub my puffy eyes.
Find the nearest vendor of a caffeinated brew.
Stimulate my fog filled mind,
to imitate the energy
that seems to come so naturally
when I wake next to you.
The next two poems are about capturing dreams and bringing them to our conscious memory.
Dream Catcher
Seeping into consciousness from
the land of Koala Queue,
a tangled mass of mystery
appears from the mist of Roo.
From a eucalyptus canopy,
where all the leaves are blue,
comes the answer to your
riddle in electro-coded goo.
The blue Koala’s whisper
travels on a turquoise wind,
and synaptic gaps convey his
thoughts to the place where
yours begin.
The Single Color of a Dream
Magenta.
What will it be
when rods and cones
are brought to bear?
Cream colored skin?
Auburn hair
blown by the wind,
streaked by the sun?
If it stays magenta,
we can’t know.
It will be lost
in the undertow
of a sea of dreams.
