Tag Archives: Dreams

Wild Nights

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Wild Nights 

I’m caught up in my surreal dream,
irrational as it might seem,
of tabby cats and wolverines
in leather jackets and distressed jeans,
their animal natures left behind
for culture of a human kind.

Armadillos playing squash,
then coming over for a nosh.
Butterflies on roller skates
hobnobbing with potentates,
wings integral in lifting up
to table level as they sup.

Kangaroos keep up the beat
by drumming with their paws and feet.
Cicadas sound their castanets,

summoning their sobriquets*
as rain joins in with steady drumming,
to accompany their humming.

Varied species get along:
wolf and canary join in song,
the party only breaking up
when I’m awakened by my pup
and the pets of my imagination
succumb once more to sublimation.

*In Mexico, cicadas are nicknamed “Rainbirds” because their noisy clatter announces the imminent arrival of the rainy season.

Prompt words today are: culture, squash, surreal,integral, wolf, tabby cat and irrational. Photos of cat, butterfly, cicada and Zoe biting my ear are all by me. The rest are thanks to Unsplash.



Dreams do not circumscribe, but let us wander forth and back,
defying time to travel through memory’s broad crack.

The profile of the present vanishes in rapid transit
without asking us if we are in the shape to chance it.

Our minds’ stately mansions turn to crackerboxes when
that unconscious part of us has a wild yen

to plunge us back into the past to deal with problems there
for which our earlier life gave us scant time to prepare.

Time and again we have the chance to live our lives in dreams,
resolving problems in a manner our subconscious deems

to be healthy solutions to what didn’t work before.
It is as though the elements opened up a door

and let us wander back again through time and distance vast
to give us all a second chance to rectify the past.

Reminding us that our old sorrows were not meant to last,
revising slightly all those roles to which we have been cast.

Time that once sifted slowly rushes through the hourglass,

assuring us of that set truth: that this, too, shall pass.


Prompts today are time travel, transit, profile, circumscribe, healthy, crackerbox and element. First photo by jdb, hourglass by Aron Visuals on Unsplash.

Gone Fishing

Gone Fishing

I brandish my brain and confer with the night,
assiduously, wait for new thoughts to bite.
I go fishing for words that will serve as the bait
as what I am thinking I try to relate.

Floating on dreams, I troll their broad sea.
As I fish in them, I’m fishing in me.
Pulling out words from the seas where they ride
bright flashes of light that bring them topside.

Who knows what deep currents wash shores of insight
unless we cast nets to draw them to light?
In our forgotten midnights, their legions are teeming.
We must troll their dark depths for these riches of dreaming.

The lush waters of night invite interruption.
They do not view our hooks as corruption.
We’re their reason for being. They are food for our thought.
We cast lines in their depths that we may be taught.

Prompt words for today are brandish, confer, assiduous and forgotten. Painting by Isidro Xilonzochitl.



I’m hiding in my broken self, couched down deep inside,
in concord with those secret parts I find it best to hide.
The most appealing sides of me are ones I choose to show
while the shattered rest of me finds somewhere else to go.

We often come together. We conspire in my dreams
when who I really am comes out to join with whom she seems.
It’s a convocation of past selves and of present—
all my selves from bratty kid to other selves more pleasant.

That part that takes the smallest piece of cake comes face-to-face
with parts that want the biggest piece and put her in her place.
Those selves that were once bullied confront their sense of loss,
face up to the bully and for once end up the boss.

Broken hearts are mended and pride put in its place.
In dreams I deal with all my faults that I’m meant to face.
It’s there I meet with former selves that weep or laugh or rage,
and then when I awaken, I put them on the page.

Prompt words for the day are appealing, broken, hiding and concord.


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What draws me to the cabin that beckons through the wood?
I’d take the rail-straight pathway if I only could,
but I have no legs to walk that sidewalk in.
Nor can I see the night around it, black as deepest sin.
I only feel that darkness, for I have no eyes.
I cannot see the pine woods or things in any guise.
I cannot smell the fog that lifts from forest floor.
I cannot see the shaft of light that leads me to its door.
I cannot feel the cushion of bracken or of pine,
for all of these sensations are no longer mine.
The scene they build in memory may not be as it seems,
for what I am remembering may be the stuff of dreams.


For What Do You See #31 prompt

Oxycontin Dream: NaPoWriMo, Day 4

Oxycontin Dream

“Eggplant,” he says, at two in the morning.
“What if I carved an eggplant
and made it look exactly the same inside as outside.”
“What would you carve it from?” I ask.
I already told you.  Eggplant.”

His eyes roll back, his mind still caught
in the penumbra of his inspiration.
He has been having artistic inspiration all night long.
Now that he suspects his last joint is welded,
his last stone drilled and carved and smoothed,
he is regretting not creating
that one last great piece.

For hours, his arms reach up

in perfect pantomime
joining wood to stone,
stitching paper to frames.

“See that shadow behind Lisa’s head?”  he asks me.
“Well, bring it over here and put it on top,
then take the bed rail off and add it to the bottom.”

When he sleeps, his lips move.
Words almost connected come out half-digested.
Hands reach out and clutch.
“Oh, it’s gone,” he says.  Over and over,
reaching out for each thing almost grasped.



For NaPoWriMo day four, we are to write a poem based on a dream.

Recycled Dreams


Recycled Dreams

Nature recycles as everyone sleeps,
and those dreams that you’ve dreamed are the daydreams it reaps.
Then twice thought and forgotten, our daydreams soar free.
How many dreams may lie snarled in this  tree?
We cast them afloat but  know not how they fare
once we’ve released them out into the air.

Dreams are not limited by dreamers’ choices.
Once announced and declared in stentorian voices,
birds may collect them and shape them in nests
among fibers from sweaters and threadbare old vests
once the pride of new grandpas, they now cradle eggs,
as though new dreams are made of an old daydream’s dregs.

Prompts today are stentorian, daydream, pride, afloat and I’m also incorporating Becca Givens’ Sunday Tree prompt.





There are moments caught between heart-beats that fall into crevasses where they nourish our dreams. Streaming rivulets that escape our conscious daylight world swell these moments until they become full-grown nightly adventures––what we have hoped blended with what else might be possible, tempered by fears and regrets. What part of us orchestrates these dreams has never been discovered––some grand arranger of self that does not allow itself to be controlled by any conscious part of us, perhaps. It is a cinema we construct for ourselves—a relief from or a censor of or a collector of those parts of ourselves we would otherwise not deal with. Those parts of ourselves we struggle to forget and throw away? There is no detritus in our lives. Some great hoarder within us reaches out a hand to capture and arrange them, then calls them dreams.


The dVerse Poets Pub prompt today was to write a 144-word flash fiction piece making use of the first sentence in my essay above.



My dreams always end before some big climax—the revelation of what is behind the wall or who is behind the spread cape, ready to turn around and solve the mystery. Dreams are a wonderland we dive into unaware—a little surprise some part of us produces every night. A vast world composed of images real and false. Bits from our past or present scrambled up with fantastic elements perhaps remembered from our youth. Dreams where we can fly. Sinister alleys and unknown streets we wander through, at first with a false assurance that they will lead to somewhere. It is with regrets or a heartfelt “hurray!” that we awaken from these dreams—either saved  or disappointed by the awakening—our lives somehow sorted out by the weird realignment of facts and fantasy that they accomplish, like shuffled cards, rearranging our past by mixing it in with the future or with fantasy. Dreams are a surreal world we enter every night, no less real than the world we live in every day. Just different, made up of different parts of ourselves. A second chance, perhaps. Or a sorting out of problems, worries, regrets.

Prompts today are divewonderland, false, hurray, vast.