a dream of dreams

This is a poem I wrote nearly a year ago, inspired by a charming and fascinating site called Osseous Design: The Blog .      I happened upon the site one day when surfing, and wrote the date 1-24-17, and name of the Blog at the top of my notebook page.   Tracing back, I was able to find the unique  site, with its creative and innovative “faces” and an original painting and poem with a dream theme.    https://osseousdesign.wordpress.com/2017/01/08/identities/

I was moved to write a poem of my own in my notebook.   Here it is:

dream of dreams

a dream is never “just a dream”
but a manifestation of reveries
ever real, everlasting, ever true
figments of memories—

a dream is never “just a dream”
for much of life’s experience exists
within a world of somedays and might-have-beens
through which hopes and wishes bravely persist

those who discount or ignore life’s dreams
lose and squander the joy of make-believe…
forfeits the pretense and right to achieve
truth never known remains to perceive.

©Sometimes, 2017

Dreaming imaginary Prague, reposted

Dreaming imaginary Prague

 I have never been to Prague, except in daydreams…
but my impressionable mind is easily led
into the magical world of zithers and Gypsies,
of violins singing and wailing in ageless melodies…
music of joy and abandon…or sadness and melancholy.

Put on your hat, my girl, and come along with me…
We will trip the light fantastic (or is it a Fandango?)
whirling, twirling and dancing …and laughing at nothing
as our echoing soles  click and ring among  the cobblestones…
back to the days of fancy and intrigue.

Halcyon days of exquisite youth and passion for it all–
sordid or glorious, respectable or ridiculous–
days when common sense stayed at home amid the quiet
and comfortable over-stuffed chairs…and crackling radio static
never quite able to drown out the strains of an orchestral tune.

Prickles of goose bumps remind of running with n’er-do-wells
and bad influences…those mysterious, exciting  ones that
never existed, masquerading as “ladies” and “gentlemen,”
life’s forbidden (or at least frowned upon) adventures
among the brilliantly dark recesses of shadowy corners.

The mere mention of Prague always brings unseen wonders–
half-vision, half-dream.      There are Ladies in satiny dresses
and impossible shoes…. dancing away the nights, until dawn.
They sway with the music of instruments with no names,
enticing dangerously handsome partners with unknown designs.

But I digress, as is my wont…
the thoughts of romance and mystery subside–
old Prague returns to an idea that lives on
for dreamers…and poets.

©Sometimes, 2016

clouds and memories, a poem

jet trails2

Draw me gently to your chest
my heart will linger there;
across the ages, along time’s trails,
the memories ever return.

Wait for me!—oh, wait for me!
the plaintive echo pleads.
When least expected, awakening
to memories in words of a poem.

Oh tell me—where do they dwell?
Among the dreams and reveries
apart from the wrack of reality
forever a blend of torture and joy.

©Sometimes, 2017

ever wonder if all is really “but a deam?”

Day 9, 2017.

Dreams are still one of the great mysteries of life—probably will always be.     Thoughts are paths leading through the dim reaches of our sleeping brains, bringing joy and fright, often even in the same dream.     OK, I admit to having an affinity to Kermit the Frog, with his songs about rainbows and his “lovers, and dreamers…and me…”

Enough of that kind of nonsense, I suppose.   It’s just that my nature runs to the beautiful and kindly connected features of life in general and life-on-the-edge in particular.    Sometimes it seems that no matter how terrible the evening news gets to be, there is some sense of surreality that tinges the horrific details with fuzzy edges that lend a hint of humor, at least ridicule, that belies the other-worldy bizarreness.

Occasionally I will think of something, a conversation or place that I have been, and it takes awhile to realize that the incident had actually been a dream.     An example of this phenomenon occurred for me at the time of the 9-11 attack on New York City.   During the day the news channels were playing the footage repeatedly in which the second airplane hit the Twin Towers, flying into the side of the already burning building…like a Frisbee sailing toward its mark endlessly on a giant loop.

I had entered into a fitful sleep, having watched the 9-11 tragedy over and over all day.  Also, coincidentally a family crisis was evolving closer to home, involving my adult children who were present at the impending death of their father (my ex-husband,) in a hospital in Michigan.    More than once I got out of bed and turned on the television to reassure myself that it had been in a dream of my own that the jet passenger plane was slicing into the tower …but each time I checked my TV the horrific incident was happening again in real time.

A similar reality-dream happened to me again in November of 2016, when I was awakened by a dream on election night.  I had not waited for the final count to come down before turning in, but I did have a long and detailed dream about the election…but my dream did not reflect what really happened.    In the morning CNN came on with news that was the opposite of what I had been dreaming.

Every now and then the thought recurs—that maybe Shakespeare was right about
life and dreams and the interaction of the two concepts alternating in the realms of reality and make-believe.

never say never

One of my favorite places where  I’ve never been
on the deck of a sailing ship, out on the ocean.
The boards are thick and smell of pine,
as a ballroom floor with satiny  shine…
o’er looking green hills that slope to the sea.
Where sweet maidens whirl in fine silk dresses
in powdered faces and warm shining  eyes,
dancing in time with the orchestra’s strains.

Back on my ship with the music still dancing
and humming gay tunes that remember …
my heart yearns for places that might have been;
for the deck boards of pine that echo sweet tunes
wafting o’er the salt-tinged breezes of  memories…
or dreams…of nights that might have existed
in one of my favorite places where I’ve never been.

© Sometimes, 2016

dreams of day

Days go by in dreams…
more complicated, it seems,
day-dreams pass away…
are replaced by dreams of day.

Not intended to be obtuse,
or in any way clever, or to abuse,
by flippant tries to make a verse,
or to neglect decorum in place of subterfuge.

Dream places are often familiar,
if not in actual points of reference,
at least recurrent and commonplace
locales to retreat for reassurance.

© Sometimes, 2016

Dreaming imaginary Prague

(original title: Dreaming imagination)

I have never been to Prague, except in daydreams…
but my impressionable mind is easily led
into the magical world of zithers and Gypsys,
of violins singing and wailing in ageless melodies…
music of joy and abandon…or sadness and melancholy.

Put on your hat, my girl, and come along with me…
We will trip the light fantastic (or is it a Fandango?)
whirling, twirling and dancing …and laughing at nothing
as our echoing soles  click and ring among  the cobblestones…
back to the days of fancy and intrigue.

Halcyon days of exquisite youth and passion for it all–
sordid or glorious, respectable or ridiculous–
days when common sense stayed at home amid the quiet
and comfortable over-stuffed chairs…and crackling radio static
never quite able to drown out the strains of an orchestral tune.

Prickles of goose bumps remind of running with n’er-do-wells
and bad influences…those mysterious, exciting  ones that
never existed, masquerading as “ladies” and “gentlemen,”
life’s forbidden (or at least frowned upon) adventures
among the brilliantly dark recesses of shadowy corners.

The mere mention of Prague always brings unseen wonders–
half-vision, half-dream.      There are Ladies in satiny dresses
and impossible shoes…. dancing away the nights, until dawn.
They sway with the music of instruments with no names,
enticing dangerously handsome partners with unknown designs.

But I digress, as is my wont…
the thoughts of romance and mystery subside–
old Prague returns to an idea that lives on
for dreamers…and poets.

©Sometimes, 2016

Summer Dreaming

[For Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille July 7, 2016. This poetic form is called a Haibun, which is a combination of prose and Haiku forming a story of 75-words or less…including the Haiku.   I did borrow keywords beach, and hot summer night suggested by the host.]

The sand is warm, like a lullaby
The essence of Summer warms the skin,
dreams flicker on slumbering excursions
from out of the hot summer night.

In a reverie my heart remembers
the tantalizing  passage through Time
My soul considers departing its current bunting,
dreaming of return flight to the halcyon days

days of Nirvana,
slice of lifetime in rapture,
perfection as One.

© Sometimes, 2016

Dreams, the GRE, and Shirley Temple

(I will re-post this next April 4, 2016… back to the future, so to speak. It’s new title (will be) Dreams of a Drama Queen: A-Z Challenge The Letter D.)   Sorry about any confusion…please just enjoy the post! 🙂

In my dream I was taking the GRE, the examination for applying to graduate school.  There was an endless list of multiple choice questions, in a booklet that had many pages.   I kept looking to the back pages, trying to determine how many questions there were, and how long before I could expect to be finished.  There was a time limit, but it apparently was far more time than needed.

The GRE dream was part of a more comprehensive  dream in which I was, on another level, preparing a WordPress post with the creative opening phrase: “The thing I like about blogging…”   played over and over in my dream, but never got to the point–or if it did I don’t remember it.

I dream every night, and those that I recall in detail after I wake up, tend to remain with me indefinitely.     In fact I still remember dreams I had as a child.   One such dream was actually a nightmare, when I was coming down sick with flu symptoms.   The dream consisted solely of a giant, twirling bullseye…and the theme was Dick Tracy.   Remember him?  He was a comic strip character back in the 1940s, a police detective with a dark fedora hat and a face with sharp-chiseled features.

Another disturbing dream was when I was quite young, and I was in grandfather’s garage and God was chasing me around a wicker doll buggy.  I was terrified, and when I close my eyes I can picture the scene.   I had the impression that it was God, but he looked more like an old Father Time persona, complete with white robe and long, flowing white beard.

In that same era my little Self also experienced a beautiful dream, which presented like a suddenly-technicolor scene in a Disney movie–with a colorful panorama of flowers and little animals cavorting in a pastoral setting.     This impression of the movie screen changing from sepia to brilliant Technicolor, was used effectively in the movies produced at the transition period when the use of color was new.

These dreams of seventy-some years ago, and the fact that I remember them so vividly, may have had something to do with my general fear of the movies.   I was petrified, scared to death.   Maybe because the theater was dark, and the screen was enormous–the size of a wall, creating images of real actors who were literally gigantic.

My well-meaning grandparents were hell-bent on introducing me to the delightful and adorable child actress, Shirley Temple, who was the cutest child in the world at the time, (according to her legion of fans,) and would have been nowhere near as terrifying had she not been presented in giant proportions on screen.

Just the thought of that dark cavern with the giant people and booming sound makes my heart freeze.

It was years later, when I was about twelve, that I could finally attend movies in a theater.   And yes, that was back in the day when television was finally getting to the masses, but my parents didn’t get TV until about 1950, and by then those movies were not near as intimidating on a 12-inch screen.    Matt Dillon (Gunsmoke) was my parents favorite, and they really wanted me to share the excitement and charm of Gunsmoke and other “shoot-’em-ups.”

Just think about how scary some of these modern horror movies would have been on the giant screen….I’d still be hiding!

 

 

 

Incubus, The Terrible

[RE-BLOGGED]  This beautiful poem by one of my favorite poets rings SO true   the RE-BLOG button is very welcome so that I might republish it here. Thanks, Amit Rahman!! (Gradmama2011]

Poems

Startled, I often rise up from sleep,
with my limbs trembling and sweat drenched
but my throat turned too sore and dry,
choked as if by the soot of fear,
in the throes of a tragic dream,
a dreadful and haunting nightmare,
borne by past follies or tomorrow’s loss,
too pale and numb and shaken to my core!
    

The former kinds keep chasing us
like the Furies in Orestes,
to avenge Clytemnestra’s death,
while the latter, always taunting
that we might lose our dearest things –
be it affluence, power, life, love or fame!
   

If we could stop worrying for the future
and let go of the past for once and all,
we could have savored the heavens right here
and set the world free from Incubus, the Terrible!

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