Dreams

All of us dream, but not all of us remember our dreams. They creep into our subconscious thoughts during our slumber and relieve us of the pressures of the day. Their acts play out in surreal scenes so vivid on occasion they wake us up. At other times we rise from our beds with a hazy recollection of snippets that make us blush or chuckle. We try and interpret recurring dreams, but it is only conjecture. I wrote this poem to paint a word picture of dreams.

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.

Dennis Price

Dream Rhyme

The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand. - Frank Herbert

The world of dreams is one of those areas where the subconscious mind takes over during our REM sleep cycle and re-enacts all the mental encounters we have previously experienced. We don't understand a lot about the process, but much study is being done in this area. It seems to be a stress relief mechanism for our bodies. People who abuse drugs and alcohol sometimes bypass REM sleep for days on end. The result is a condition called delirum tremens or the DTs when the dreams happen while the person is awake. It is difficult in most cases to remember dreams, but sometimes they are of sufficient strength and content to wake us up, and in those times we sometimes recall what we have dreamed. The dreams I've had rarely made sense, but I can sometimes identify an incident that may have been the root. I couldn't tell you if we dream in a mono-chrome world, or whether we see them in technicolor.

I wrote the following poem to illustrate the process in a monochrome blue world.





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.

Purple Sea

My posts over the last few days have tended toward subjects generally less appreciated by the ladies. I agreed to show a little of my feminine side on occasion for balance. I lived out of a suitcase, in a manner of speaking, for much of my career. Sleeping away from home never was very comfortable, in spite of the valiant efforts of many of our nations finest inn keepers. I have been married now for almost forty years to the same beautiful woman. She has tolerated my manly pursuits far above and beyond the call of duty. When my job and its ugliness had me spinning in space, she was my grounding post. I wrote the following poem in a motel room one night. The monochomatic world of dreams is a state of mind necessary for good mental health, and physical well being. I invisioned a good dream filled sleep like a refreshing swim in a purple sea. As we near mother's day, I say thank you to my wife for all the years she put in being both mother and dad while I was away.


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.

Dreams

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 achieved 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.