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]


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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Hearing things? just music

My alarm clock is very unpredictable, except for its accurate time-keeping function and punctuality of the alarm sound.   That sound can only be described as “annoying” and it is that very feature that accounts for the alarm clock’s longevity on my dresser.

The original electronic tune–original to that particular clock–is SO annoying that it has remained my favorite over decades because of its ear-grating sound quality.  The tune is what accounts for its success as an alarm…it assures my immediate rising to turn the thing OFF.     As an extra precaution I have always kept the clock, which is also a telephone, out of my reach, so that it requires getting out of bed and walking across the room.   It is not a radio, and I no longer use it as a telephone, just as an alarm, and as I said before– it does keep perfect time.

About two years ago the clock started to play tunes that were not programmed into its memory.   The first few times this happened I chalked it up to Dreaming.  I have always been a avid dreamer, and hearing music in dreams is not anything unusual.

The first (real) tune I heard was Loch Lomand, –which has the lyrics: “You take the high road and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland a’fore ye; For me and my true love will never meet again, on the Bonny Bonny banks of Loch Lomand. ”   [I always thought it was Loch Loming…but google spells it Lomand.]

Again, I recognized the tune, and  I know the words (more or less) to the song.  Still, I did not mention this music to anyone, and continued to assume it part of a Dream.  But over time the musical repertoire changed now and then, to include other songs that I know well–such as “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”;  “When The Saints Come Marching In” and others.

One exception to the hymns is a favorite of mine by the Credence Clearwater Revival (CCR):  “Bad Moon Rising.”  

This morning a rousing hymn, one of my favorite ecumenical hit favorites, woke me out of a sound sleep.   (Purists please forgive me for my misquoted words of the hymn…)  “Holy! Holy! Holy!…. Lord God Almighty, God in three persons ……blessed trinity.”      This great hymn is always best enjoyed (in my opinion) in a large church with one of those enormous pipe organs…nothing swells the heart like a giant church organ with an expert at the keyboard.

So, back to my entertaining alarm clock.

OK, I do joke about this impromptu concert that occurs occasionally….it is something of a phenomenon.  I do find it interesting, and invariably I hum and/or sing the featured songs all day when they start off my morning.    This music always sounds like an orchestra, with a large choir of voices.  It is always a complete verse of a song that I know, it never just trails off…it sounds like a recording to me.

Seriously, I do wonder about this music.  Aside from the strange looks I get from most people when I mention it, I did a google search once and found a thread in which “music from nowhere” was discussed.   One theory was that people who had had recent dental work might be picking up radio waves.   Someone else had it only when their head was placed on a pillow with the ear covered…suggesting pyschic or mental reception from the brain…rather than the air.  (No comments required 🙂

I know…you’re all thinking “Twilight Zone.”   Maybe so.  Maybe it’s a haunted contraption, my telephone-alarm system.    Could it be an adjacent alternate-reality?  Ah, even I think that is unlikely.       Maybe I am dreaming when it occurs, perhaps an inner-ear condition–I admit to being hard of hearing.   There has never been another person present when the concert occurs…just a cat, usually Tinkerbell, who probably hears about as well as I do (she is in her eighteenth year.)  I have considered that possibility and have glanced at her and any other cat that happens to be around at the time to see if there is a response.   There isn’t.

Oddly, this mysterious music does NOT occur in place of the alarm sound…only at odd times during the night when I am sound asleep.  Also–the cats DO respond to the actual alarm–I have tried to no avail to train my cats to turn off the alarm, but they either don’t get it…or they refuse to even try it.   All they would have to do is touch the alarm button with their foot…how difficult is that?

Dreaming about a BUFFALO?

One of my most recurring dreams is called “The Farm.” The theme, or plot, of this dream is loosely built upon farm property that my late husband and his parents worked for decades. But of course this is a place in the realm of dreams…and not based on anything even remotely real.

Last night’s episode combined elements of two basic dream scenarios. One was the basic farm market theme, the other involved a very old house which is a staple of another of my nocturnal destinations. In the dream here under discussion the two-story building was more like huge barn than like a house.

I was called to the back of the building to see, at the second story window, a very large stag with a huge rack of horns.

The animal softly uttered a sound that for all the world sounded like “MEW…” I said to him, “OK–I’ll get you out.”

The problem was one of logistics, getting the stag to come down the stairs of his own volition, without trampling any of the people who had gathered, apparently finding the situation more interesting than browsing the vegetable market.

The stag proceeded to come down the stairs and make a dash for one of the open areas leading outside. At least one female deer, in a panic, crashed about and escaped unharmed. Two fawns were leaping about like ballerina dancers.

My concern was for the frantic animals, and the foolish crowd milling around as if at a circus. Then there was a ruckus at the stairs, and I yelled “WATCH OUT FOR THE BUFFALO!”

The poor BUFFALO was huge, and had the prerequisite curved horns. It was frightened by the crowd , which by now was as scared as the buffalo.
At this point our neighbor’s big chocolate lab, Princess, had moved between me and the buffalo–which both of us greatly appreciated.-