Tag: the dreaming

  • semicolon days;

    these semicolon days
    with that breathy pause
    before twilight turns to night
    the winter queen waiting

    with a yawn and stretch
    dreaming of scarlet and black
    both wrists bared and
    knees to the earth
    a surrender to stone
    and hearth

  • slumber

    chill breeze flowing
    through open windows
    and everyone sleeping
    in this sleeping house

    my own mind slumbers
    too
    and i wonder if it
    will ever wake

    There are more times of late when I feel more simulacrum than person. This is one of those times, where I am quite content in not moving forward if only this moment could linger. Stop the simulation, let me sleepy-slumber with late summer (or early autumn, I suppose) on the morn, windows open, bare legs cold, the faint bird chirps without rhythm or meaning, the highway drone from a few miles away. Coffee mug in hand, ignoring the turmoil in the news. Watching cats watch whatever and not feeling too much pain in the joints until I move.

    I could be that simulacrum, my brain says — for a while longer. Record and set to repeat. I’m tired of most everything else. Add a section when I lay atop my bedding and sleepwalk in half-remembered dreams, maybe program a section where I catch chill and nest underneath too. What about a companion? While a nice thought, I’m not sure such scenes allow for companionship. The slumbering simulacrum seems a solitary affair, doesn’t it? Or maybe… but no. We’ll leave that for the dreaming this simulacrum might have.

    If it were possible to have this half-dream state of existing, I might even stop writing. It would be my gift to the world.

    Hush now. I feel another dream.

  • notnight

    Photo by Samuel Quek on Unsplash
    neverything coming waves
    washing over my black sands
    in the untethered paleness
    of notnight aglow afar
    and i undertow flow
    back to the nine
    back to chilled dreaming
    as if unknown to wake

  • fractured moons

    Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
    these fractured moons
    stolen away with threadbare
    etched in whalebone hue

    time to turn off the radio
    listen to the forest hum
    time to watch waves come anew

    oh, these lonely
    moon broke nights
    between a hard place and you

  • triptych

    black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees
    Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
    tangletown dreaming
    arterial roots weaving
    entwined, your eyes
    chipped onyx flecked
    and flint in the corners
    windows wide and riding
    the tall beasts fell
    to that old beat howl
    all mouths gaping at
    how beautiful you are
    No. How could you possibly
    understand? You would need
    the books and coin-covered
    eyes to see. Crossing that river
    that seems a stream and, if you
    do, you could never look back.
    you look skies, but
    some say prayers
    over a sea of sand
    in cities of dust
    come the ash driven
    like the snow

    while i say mine

  • hollow me

    Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash
    hollow me wraithly
    flitting through moon
    crisp tasting & elder
    untouching the floor

    moving within within
    moving within
    but… unseen
    for all the howl

    cold hearth & ashen
    still glide the home
    given to memento
    given to the gloam

  • For you

    Photo by Adarsh Kummur on Unsplash

    You’ll find me at moorwanders, following smalltrails and playing at touchstone for the only thing that is real. Here, elder ways draw to base: flame crosses chill, rain mists slick the stone, and the growl of winds between the ways. Here, the animals sing underhill, a call to slumber.

    I know you tire at the mention of Raven, but they are here too.

    The best magic is that which seems not to be magic at all, and it lingers here like it did in the old, doing a lot of nothing much at all: wind waves barley, skies trading slate for blue and then back again, small birds ducking in and out of the tall grass and the lone tree upon the hill. Them, big oak and me as all acorn, resting underneath and waiting.

    For what? you ask.

    Well, if you must need know… for you.

  • warden

    Photo by Ovidiu Cozma on Unsplash
    circling threes from trees
    birch white paper of black
    calling out his name
    from the wending ways
    a warden in the weald

    we are flight we are free
    bending skies to our own
    shaking wood, twisting stone
    to lay alone of earthwomb
    wrapped in fevers

    a fragment found.
    a key —

    head tilt and a shout,
    a return to north winds

  • dogs

    Photo by Massimiliano Sarno on Unsplash
    her face in the mirror
    all mine not mine and
    there is rust washing
    to be done on old chains
    in the barren playlot

    she the me locking unlocking
    six-paneled doors wood
    of ghetto apartments
    a gulag of memories jailed
    rape is not right
    not a right
    but we, me and she
    promise the no cry no more

    come knocking,
    come knocking
    down the corridor
    and i hold she as me
    in our striped stained bed
    crying hush to those
    howling dogs of war

  • imagine

    Photo by Kaleb Brown on Unsplash
    to fall out of lifetime
    into dream embraces
    and forget an outside
    imagine

    careful, clouds
    glide against ever blue
    falling up into the you
    imagine

    lost roads in drift
    over the hills and
    far away, a heaven to
    imagine