Another Spoonful of Dreams


I dreamt you allowed me
to hold you, and I did, as
I dreamt you’d want me to.
And I recall wishing
my skin was soft as yours,
my embrace strong,
yet tender, too.
My chest I pressed
against your back,
your breast
my hand caressed.
I needed to know
if heartbeats echo
or mirror-beat as one.
But this was only a dream,
one many nights I’ve lived,
in which I’m not the me
by dawn’s light I see,
but one you’d wish hold you
how you’d want enfold you
on those nights
it’s your dream to be held.

Sat down late this afternoon and along came this 100-word piece of free-written, stream-of-consciousness run mushily amok. Must be the approaching celebration of mirror-beating hearts and mated souls . Oh, and the imagined dreams of my dreamy imagination.

Reaching Out for the Out of Reach


I would think of her whenever I heard that song or even the singer. I’d recall the pain of obsessing over that which I could not have, yet still I dreamt of the possibility of it all. There was no way she could be more than she was, or really, what I was to her. But still my heart would leap when I saw her name on my ringing phone, feel the heat rise through my body and the flip-flop of something leap inside me as I held what I could of her in my hand. The distance between us would always exist because we each placed boundaries around one another, defenses against another broken heart. But mine was already shattered by the disappointment I realized whenever I stopped to think what might happen if… If we did breach my fear of our finally being together. How long before the joy waned and she discovered the secret I hide even from myself? I’ve yearned for so many, so much, so often, and the truth burns more than the longing. See, it’s really the yearning I love more than the yearned.

I wanted to dash off a quick something this morning, so I went to the dictionary and opened it to any random word. Up came YEARNING. I know, I know. Rather than wing it and just write, I decided to use an old process of mine I learned from Ray Bradbury. You take the theme of your potential work and then list ten nouns you free associate with it, each preceded by the word the. They’re all up in that block of prose poem above. A free written piece of semi-fiction, semi-confessional by a character who yearned to be expressed, I guess.

Nights Covered in Dreams


My dreams have stopped again, which shouldn’t surprise me because dreams were ever in short supply on the shelves of my mind. They’ve always been scant and what lies on this pillow isn’t some 24-hour emporium of packages filled with images and sensations I once felt, or never will feel again. I like to sleep in total darkness, but enjoyed the light and lightning dreams brought to my nights. Perhaps that’s why, once I awaken now from the dark within darkness, I find dreams in a song, or the kiss, smell and taste of wind and water upon my face, the tracks my pen leaves upon a sheet of paper. Such dreams once were high-flying aspirations, but now bring rest to my mind before it lies dormant, in darkness, whether I’m alone or covered warm beneath other sheets. These woven of percale and reverie, scribbled seam-to-seam with dreams of you.

Her Heart

piece of my heart

piece of my heart

It’s her heart that’ll get you.
It is a soft heart, warm heart,
hard heart, cold heart.
It’s a caged heart,
a free-flying heart,
a heart of flesh
that rests in her chest
and pumps the blood a’simmmer
that warms her touch
upon your skin, setting
your own heart ablaze.
It’s a heart made of thoughts
and emotions, with tiny
bricks of empathy and anger.
Her heart is covered
with notches for each
of her loves and a
near-matching number of scars
for all the times they broke it.
Yes, her heart gets you
in so many ways you don’t know
where to look, except maybe
within your own, where you’ll
know it by her flaming-arrow glow.
That’s because her aim isn’t only
to be so sure,but always
to be true.

Written in bed over the last 15 minutes before lights-out. I used to think of this as my creative hour, as I would lie there, waiting for sleep to come in sand tuck me in. In the near-sleep, with its breath and breath,  ideas and images fly into my pillow-framed head, where they’ll roost for the night and fly off by morning. That is, unless I catch ’em first and hold them for you until dawn.

The Light Beneath the Door


During the night, dreams
once slipped into my sleep
through the gap beneath
my bedroom door.
Some sheer boy-flying fantasy,
others bogey-man frightful,
all, in their own way,
illuminating corners of me
hidden even from myself.
But time, the long march
of night after night,
presses down upon old houses
and men, making us settle and warp,
closing our narrow entries
and locking out the dream light
from our fitful sleep.
Tonight, I’m leaving open the door
to whatever wishes to wing
or creep into my sleeping self.
Bogey-men be damned,
tonight we fly.
To the light.

Dreams, Again


Dreams can be such odd things,
such palpable occurrences in
the unconscious and subconscious
that can dissolve with the mere
opening of one eye and check of the clock,
or they’ll cling to you for days, years,
after performing for a minute in
your defenseless mind.

I never worried about dreams, except
for not having any, for many of those
remembering years. My mind ceded them
to the attic like I did comic books,
once-cherished things now kept
in dusty boxes as their colors faded.
But now they’ve returned, the dreams,
playing out like these graphic novels.

And you’re back with them, as hero
or antagonist I’ve yet to tell.
I’m just stunned by your appearance
so real in my Sleeping Beauty fantasy,
creeping up behind me, dressed in
daffodil yellow, whispering a mystery
and leaving the whisper of a kiss
upon my cheek. Then wake, one eye
on the clock again telling me
it’s always too late.

Another Night’s Conversation


“I never asked for this,” I said.

“You didn’t NOT ask either.”

“So now?”

“You sleep. I die.”

“Again? And if I wake up?”

“You’ll still be alone.”

Another make-up of a Missing-Story-A-Day. The prompt was for a Twitter story, a story of 140 characters of less (spaces included). I’m not sure if being a poet who started in haiku and who obsesses over 100-word limits for his poems helps in writing Tweet-sized stories, but I don’t think it hurt, either.