Dreamer

Thoughts of you cloud my mind tonight
Wanting to sleep is it real or not
My dreams are my reality,
Reality my dreams. Or not?
Can I sleep to forget all this?
Wake up, fog lifted. Hello and goodbye.
Why do you call to me? I will tell you no.
Deep sigh I step into this world.
Off an edge, an unknown bliss.

Just a face in the pond

I walked Down the street in the early morning light.
Juggling books, phone, scone, and coffee. It splashes and burns leaving my hand red and throbbing.
The sunlight shot between the buildings, bouncing off cars as they passed slowly. 
I caught a glimpse of a girl I knew. 
A girl I thought I knew. But it couldn't have been. 
This girl was tired and sad. Her head was down, shaded by her hair.
Sunglasses hid her normally bright eyes that had now turned a dull grey.
A forced half smile that cried for RELIEF replaced the gleaming space    Where ruckus laughter used to erupt.
She passed by quickly, not saying a word.
I turned the corner- looking back and she was gone. 
On that old abandoned bench, I sat. I paged through eliot's wasteland.
Closing my eyes and breathing, The cool morning air refreshed me. The sun relaxed me. I faded into a dream.
I needed something more. Desired something more. 
Heading back towards town, I contemplated Beckett. Too absurd. Something else.
Windows glared from the sunlight of the late afternoon. 
I could get more coffee, but I'd be up all night. 
Thumbing through the dusty books. Old ones crumbling like dried up leaves rested near new ones, craving to be touched and used over and over. 
Poe. That might do. Something dark.
Drifting through town that night as the fog moved in, I felt a presence. 
I turned around and saw nothing, but something stirred in the air, yet their was not even the most subtle of breezes. 
The moonlight created faint shadows that danced among the trees. 
I edged towards the pond. Just clear enough. 
I gazed down, trying to see to the bottom but Vegetation and ripples obscured my vision.
The moonlight danced on the water. There she lay at the bottom, among the rocks. Powder white, sadness frozen upon her face.
I reached in to save her. She disappeared. She is both dead and living. Staring back at me.
I call it day. Rest my head only pillow. Her face haunts my dreams. I wake, wanting no more to dream. 
And another sun rises.

I was lucky enough to sit and listen to Henry Real Bird speak on writing and life. He spoke with emotion and hope, from experiences of his life, and he was a great inspiration to us all.

"Me, I do not look like myself, I am lonesome"
I had to put my head down, hearing these words. I looked at my reflection and saw nothing satisfying today. I saw nothing that even remotely resembled me. I was able to ponder that a bit, then brush it off thinking it was probably just fatigue. Walking into class though someone looked at me and said, "Are you doing ok? You look horrible!" My eyes welled up because I knew he was right. This time I couldn't let it go. I had realized that how I was truly feeling was catching up and was as transparent as glass. I have a lot of reflecting to do, but not even this blog will suffice at the moment.

"Thought is from the shadow of the flame"

"Whatever we do, the good and the bad are there."
I have accepted the good AND bad in the people I love, I wouldn't change a thing. But it's hard to love someone who can't accept it themselves.

"We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow"

I just read Shel Silverstein's "where the sidewalk ends", I have not read his poems for years but picked it up tonight. This poem specifically took on a whole new meaning for me. I am finding that my sidewalk is coming to an end as well. But I think instead of cautiously approaching the end, I need to simply run, skip, jump and risk the fall. Children and their carefree smiles, days of playing only are such an inspiration.

"Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends."



I also read his poem, invitation. I have always loved this poem, possibly one of my favorites!

INVITATION

"If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer . . .
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire,
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!"

Flames rise from the fire and I decide which to fill my night with, Silverstein or Eliot. Difficult decision but I could add some fun and lightheartedness to my week- Silverstein it is!