Category Archives: dreams

Strange days indeed

this morning,
someone asked me if i had food.
i was driving,
and no one was with me.
this question,
spoken through ether,
was an answer to a tardy dream
i had
of one in rags
who wanted to speak but couldn’t.

black, as a colour (or the absence thereof),
can express thought or intent surprisingly well.
for such were his eyes,
and they saw me well.

i stopped for relief on a gravelly shoulder,
pushing aside fronds and common bush
to tend to business.
being done, i shoved my way out,
and found that burdocks and sundry
had stuck to my clothing.

a tiny twig had gotten between my neck and collar,
and as i pulled it out i saw it held a pale cocoon.
one in want of a metamorphosis,
but stilled somehow.
its furled denizen mummified.
a life never lived.
a waste.

33: A mantis in Atlantis

Under the sea
Under the sea
Life is much better
Down where it’s wetter,
take it from me!*

I was strapped to a stool
facing a desk
on a concrete floor
under a hot light
Behind the desk sat a Mantis.
Unusually large (s)he was.
Triangular visage.
Opaque eyes.
Saw-toothed arms, chitinous wings.
Elbows on the desktop. (do they have elbows)
It wanted me to play the shell game.
With actual shells.
It lifted the centre shell
and placed a copper key underneath it.
I knew it would fit my locks.
With a whiz whiz here
and a whiz whiz there,
it stymied my eyes.
Then chittered out some tiny bubbles.
I was to pick.
Left-hand one: empty.
Right hand one: The key! I had done it!
Whereupon it raised up a grassy palm,
stopping my reach.
Pointed to the centre one.
I lift.
It’s me, miniature me. Runs around with a puny scream.
Mantis makes a grab. Stuffs mini me into mandibles.
Reaches out with saw-toothed arms…

*Disney

Dad’s wish

Dad’s been long in his grave.
We didn’t know each other, really.
At nineteen, I felt like a fake,
attending bedside vigils,
not knowing what to say or do.
When i got the call, I was silent.
Only silent.
Fifty years ago.

And now, I’m a year away
from living as long as he did.
In a bothered and quavering dream
last night,
I waited by the winter waterfall,
in a cove among dark pines.
I knew of his coming,
and kept an eye upslope
on the frozen bush road.
There were no night noises here,
and so I heard the crunch of his zip-up rubbers
just before he materialized.
It was Dad all right, with his white goatee,
dressed in an overcoat of black oilcloth
and his tweed fedora.
He was carrying things:
one of those flat aluminum saucers you had when you were a kid,
and, in the other hand, a dufflebag.
He came up to me, and set his things down.
He did not speak, but pulled out a pack of cigarettes,
lighting one for each of us.
I could not speak,
and withdrew my eyes from his.
We smoked for a minute or two.
He picked up the dufflebag
and led me by the arm down to the river.
There was a wooden bench there,
and he motioned me to sit.
Beside me he placed the bag,
then made a curious praying gesture.
Then he held up one finger,
in token that I should wait.
I watched him trudge back up the icy hill,
carrying his saucer.
A moment later, he came plummeting down the hill.
He was laughing, laughing.
My Dad was having FUN,
such as I’d never seen him do in life.
As he passed me, he was waving,
and I stood up suddenly.
He was going straight for the river.
In a second, he was gone.
I ran to the riverbank,
just as he went through the thin ice.
He was still waving, and smiled placidly,
making the OK sign as he sunk.
I knew he didn’t want to be saved,
for this was only a cartoon death.
At the end, I struggled with the meaning
as I sat down once more on the bench.
I unzipped the brown dufflebag,
and there was a mewing as I lifted out the black cat.
It was warm, and I gathered it to me,
but it wanted to look at my face.
Its eyes looked into mine and held me,
seeing more than I wanted.
Dad, I thought.
At last, the eyes relaxed,
with a seeming smile of wistful regret.
“Would you like a cigarette?”
I said.

Old chum

There’s a feller
comes to my windy
some nights.
He tall
He skinny bones
He grey like
He looks right in
with a big face
First few times
i real scared
i cry and run to my elders
they say dreams dreams
go to bed
i say no come come i show you
and he gone
they make fun
and say tell no more lies
and so last night i see the big face again
and it sort of smile
blinking black eyes
and now i don’t run
he look up then down
up then down on the windy frame
but i cant open
new paint dried oh yesterday
then he put long wormy fingers on the glass
and push up up open
he take my hand in pyjamas
and i smell him
like spearmint gum
and i not afraid no more
he take me far far away
we sail
and i see things not one of you will ever know.
just my old chum.

***

Art by Jaroslav Panuska, via Google

31: The box

In one side of a thick box, there’s a pencil-sized peephole.  Through it, one can see the box, the peephole, and one’s own eye.  This is because the box is facing a thick mirror.
The name of the box is REFRIGERATEUR.  Perhaps its surname is AVIS, with two arrows pointing upward.  It is a bit warm in here, but there is a pleasing odour of new cardboard, liberated by the warmth and moistness of one’s own breath.

There’s no sound, no movement, until two feminine bodies walk into the picture.  One goes past, out of frame, while the other (in a white sweatshirt and jeans) stands by the mirror and leans against it.  They are talking, but only in tones.  Like the grownups in the Charlie Brown movies.  One is an oboe, the other a cello.

It’s irritating that their repartee will not gel into words, because the notes are intriguing. Miss Cello, as she leans by the mirror, assumes a higher pitch, becoming a violin with a drawn-out keening timbre.
The oboe changes too, and there’s a ukulele laugh.

Miss Cello had entered the scene with arms folded and hands cupping elbows as if cold.  As she warms up, she unfolds them.  One can see by her bas-relief veins and her sunspots that she is not a teenager any more, though she wears some low-hanging bling. And yes… her hands.  So beautifully rendered, like those of Michelangelo’s David.  Her fingers are meshed, as if afraid of singleness.  They tremble a bit, and it seems that the Ukulele has made her anxious.  To smooth things out, Miss U plays dreamy notes on the Saw or the Theremin.

As the symphony rises and falls, Miss C unlocks her hands momentarily, then begins to pull on a hangnail that’s on her left thumb.  All with the Yang side of her mind.  Still speaking in C Minor, she tears it off and winces.  The bleeding seems to calm her, and her music is more confident and lilting.  But I, the peephole voyeur, watch as she wipes little stripes of blood on the underside of her wrist.

At last, the treble is finally fixed, and I can hear their words.

Miss U:  What’s the matter?

Miss C:  Nothing….why?

Miss U:  Come on.  I know you too well.

Miss C makes a crying laugh.  A laughing cry.

Miss C:  I dream.  I dream……

Miss U:  What’s the matter, honey?

Miss C:  I can’t….I just can’t.

Miss U rushes to her just before she collapses.  The lights go out.

***

Photo by Jill Battaglia at https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Ffineartamerica.com%2Ffeatured%2Feye-looking-through-peep-hole-jill-battaglia.html%3Fproduct%3Dposter&psig=AOvVaw0tW7NMV500Kx5GKaW3JXHJ&ust=1621729427746000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAMQjB1qFwoTCNDwuJGD3PACFQAAAAAdAAAAABAF

30: Nightmarish (a shot in the dark)…may offend.

With planned barbarism they came.
Safety in numbers.
Their eyes as dead as a Great White’s.
Jittering on their hair triggers.
Never questioning the barked orders of their commanders.
My house of precious ones scream from their interrupted sleep.
Boots on the floor doom doom.
Screams cut short by gagging sounds. Ballistic noise.
And I, with rebellious heart, 
try to find courage, think of action. Too late.
With fists of iron they drag us outside
under sputtering streetlamps.
Multitudes of scarcely-known neighbors 
in lines on the night time street,
crying, shouting, begging.
Random rifle reports,
not warnings.  People fall.
The squeaky wheels got the grease.
And I am trying to calm down,
hugging my own
with emotion scarcely shown
until this night.
“You are the father?”,
one of these brutes says.
“Come here.  Stand here.”
The shark eyes look into mine,
and my only thoughts, 
my last thoughts,
are “why such black automated hate?”
“does he not see me?”
“I am a person”.
SMACK.  He hits me in the cheekbone with his gun,
and I stumble, bleeding.
The children scream and try to help me up.
That is a mistake, for they do not want you up.
But I stand stupidly.
Brute puts his hand under my chin, and tilts my head back.
And then, and then.
There’s a bang and I fall in my turn.
My teeth shattered, hole through my palate and on and on.
I swallow and swallow, but there’s too much.
Why.
Why.

The way out

Cable-carried am I,
upslope,
in harness.
Slow. It is slow.
I hear the rollercoaster clacks,
each prophesying sinister thrills.
With powered eyes I see
continents of fogged-in secrets.
Sorry horses stand, bedraggled in streaming rains.
They look to me with pleading eyes,
but I have no help to give.
Clack, clack, clack…..a sharp turn.
The dream veils are dropped,
and it is bright cooking sun.
Beetles of football size float by with a helicopter buzz.
At my left hand, now, is a rail of brass.
From it hang leather pouches,
each containing an object of obscure purpose.
Now a can of grease.
Now a pair of winged sandals.
Sunglasses with upside-down arms.
I see now that my left hand holds a red stop button,
and I press it.
The rippling tinkle sound of a taut chain relaxing.
I do not wish to leave items that I might need,
but I don’t know what to take.
I pick up a red phone, hung from a post.
Its rotary dial says “phone a friend”.
I say hello.
Someone in a cackling voice says
“We are all mad here”, and hangs up.
I decide that the items in the pouches are false bait.
There’s a tin pedal at my foot,
like the ones in bumper cars.
I step on it, and move on.
My path drops away, suddenly downslope,
and I feel a release from the ratcheting chain.
I am speeding now, in full panic.
There are three rushing rivers at the end of my Zip line.
Within arms’ reach, there is a lever with three positions available.
I try it, but it does nothing yet.
There’s a brake pedal too, and I jam it as hard as I can.
I smell the smoking steel, memories of subways long ago.
Once more, I am at a crawl, coming to the end of the line and the rushing waters.
There is one last leather pouch.
It holds a pair of stout cutters, and I take them.
Out of track, now.
Feet dangling, I hang from an overhead derrick.
I try my lever again.
It moves me over the gateways of each water.
Cockeyed conifers point to the left hand way.
On a ledge, above the right hand river,
a rainy horse.
I shift the lever, then cut the cord.
The water is warm,
and oh so sleepy.

Mister M.

 

 

We mumbles,
yes we mumbles,
and oftentimes we screams.
Depends a lot on Mister “M”,
Director of our dreams.

We stumbles and we fumbles,
through the achy breaky pains.
And he always makes us stay inside,
excepting when it rains.

Now, quite a skimpy imp he is,
but never is he humble.
He Keeps us down and out of it,
no matter how we grumble.

He takes delight in malady
and worthiness a-crumble.
Remembrance of normality
has taken quite a tumble.

We hear that even Superman
could not defeat the imp.
We’ve got to learn to think again
to cure us of its gimp.

So, fight its stories drear and dark,
and give it no more place.
Unhappiness, his mortal mark,
may leave but little trace.

The Birth

so sleepy.
caresses with gloves of plush velvet.
and so, let me slide…
I fly over brooding lands of Origin.
my mast head turns to visions magnetic.

pieces of The Art, half seen.
rumors of stories ancient.
obscured, they tantalize.
they collect within me until I must pause to consider each.

as a bird, I alight, upon a branch of rusting iron.
and there do i give hot birth to the leaden egg.
marbled in its weight, it burns,
swirling, showing on its shell a hint of bright beginnings.

i wait only for the Word,
but confounded am i by the echoes of witless conversations.
theatrical in their urgency.
demented and demonic.
the Great Lie.

there is the sound of one hand clapping.

the falsity bursts into crackling embers, then full dark.

There is a bang.

***

Image credit: http://www.dinosaurus.puisto.com