Tag Archives: dreams

Surrealistic Cartoon

Surrealistic Cartoon

A whale goes scooting by
on a pair of roller skates.
A juggler in the sky
juggles clouds as if they were
a pile of plates.
On the edge of a crater,
an angler sits glumly with his rod,
thinks there’s no use fishing on the moon.
Could be mirrors from a dream,
a surrealistic cartoon.

A castle without a drawbridge,
a tower or a moat,
surrounded by pelicans
who demand another vote.
Camels chewing cabbage,
donkeys mumbling through a screen.
The art of conversation
they purposely demean.

I see this is going nowhere
and yet I scribble on.
I never found a subject,
the inspiration gone.
Is this a poor connection
or just a crackle in your voice?
I would choose another station,
if there is a choice.

Attend to the angel on one shoulder,
not to the devil on the other.
That is old but good advice,
when you’re frightened by a fire,
and the smoke you fail to smother.
That prolific person, Anonymous,
has written so much rhyme,
most of it forgotten,
partitioned off by time.
The referee blows his whistle,
the linesman brings down his flag,
to bring the end of nonsense,
with not one log left to drag.

Shadows On The Stream

Shadows On The Stream

Dawn wakes me from the dream,
the chilly air,
the shadows on the stream.

Were they cloaked figures
or trunks of trees,
fields of hay stacks,
shaking in the breeze?

I ask waking from the dream.
What were they,
the shadows on the stream?

The mirror plays
I see in sleep,
I leave behind,
my pillow keep.

I rescued from the sea,
the precious pearl,
the drowned that once was me.

The treasure trove
on the sea bed.
The long lost ship
found in my head.

Night takes me to the dream,
the chilly air,
the shadows on the stream.


Water Birds

Water Birds

When the street lamps are lit in the evening,
I sit by the window,
look out on the always autumn,
see the trees below,
glisten in the glow.
I am still there, sat in that chair,
calm at the centre
while the wheels turn around.
In my time of absence,
there I’ll be found,
watching leaves lift in the waltz of the wind,
thinking what if you and I were water birds.
We’d build a nest high in a tree,
glide low and slow over the lake.
Though it will seem like a dream,
we will still be there when we wake.

Grace is too clumsy a word
to describe the rise from the reeds
of the wings of a water bird.

All your medals are gold,
never silver or bronze.
You could only be first,
never second or third.
You know you have won,
lift your arms in the air,
like the wings of a water bird.

We’d be free of time and the need for words,
if we lived like water birds.

Old Gold Mine

Old Gold Mine

Look down to see the old gold mine,
abandoned like a vineyard that ran out of wine,
trust to note more than weeds and dust,
rusted trucks on a broken line.
See in the stifling dark
where they dug with axe, drill and spade.
Think of the man in the white wooden office
who withheld the true wages they made.
You can almost see them,
sat on the slopes in the shade,
helmets on the ground,
drinking coffee from tin mugs.
Pictures remain but no sound.
Gold in the mountains,
silver in streams,
jewels in the markets,
things more rare were delved for in dreams.

No Road

No Road

No road should be that wide.
More than half way there,
I knew I’d never reach the other side.
No, no road should be that wide.

No road should be that wide.
Would be easier
to try to stop the tide
than to reach the other side.
Even if you were tall, had a long stride,
your crossing would be denied.
No, no road should be that wide.

My feet felt like bags of dry shells,
my legs like iron rods, cold and stiff.
I could not take another step.
I feared a fall from a cliff.

A black smudge formed in the air,
a vehicle to menace the night.
From the dream drama, I broke free,
glad to see my room in grey light.

I blame it on the dust,
not the kind that settles on furniture
but on the mind,
to bring muffle to the ear, error to the eye.
It was just a deathly dream.
I let it go by.

No road should be that wide,
not if it was built so you could get to the other side.
No road should be that wide.

The Dream Of The Flying Fried Egg

The Dream Of The Flying Fried Egg

The universe took forever to get started.
Once it did it never stopped.

He can be Heracles, she can be Cleopatra.
We can be whoever we want to be in our dreams.
He can be Achilles, she can be Boadacea.
The river branches to the sea in many streams.

He can be the knight who rescues the maiden from the tower,
who saves the king from the rebel plot.
She can be the one who frees Joan of Arc from the fire,
who becomes the princess in tales long forgot.

This is the dream of the flying fried egg.
It flies in through your kitchen window
and lands on your plate.
You choose to eat it with peas and mashed potato.
Later, you wonder why you were chosen.
Distracted by attention to time,
you are relieved to be more early than late.
Waked from the dream of the flying fried egg,
you put on your boots and take your coat from the peg.

Whatever I could dream I could never dream you.
Whatever you could dream you could never dream me.
That means you cannot beat reality.

May the black turtle lead you to the shore.
May the white crane lift from the lake in your dreams
when you open the door.

What Was Washed Up By The Sea

What Was Washed Up By The Sea

What was washed up by the sea,
we study on the shore,
empty shells and bits of wood,
weeds the waves tossed and tore.

Time to watch the tall ships go,
begin an ocean race.
From quieter centuries,
mast and sail pass with grace.

Verse is a skill few value,
prefer tales told in prose,
but there’ll always be moonlight,
the lover and the rose.

Titans and tyrants
move their pieces on the board.
From their lofty thrones
deign not to heal what is flawed.

I oar from the shore in my canoe,
just in time it seems.
Cannot see what I fear but you know
how it is in dreams.

The green jungle is left behind me,
the river grows broad.
In my desire to write a new tune,
I find the first chord.

Taken by the horizon,
the last tall ship sails on.
I step by a razor shell,
another stranger gone.