Tag Archives: dream

Visible Space

inkedspace

Visible Space

On the sky press even the spaces must be set in metal
And sit above the text of dreams to print night’s pure black.

Sometimes that space like the space between us
Slips into the day and rises above the waking words

and becomes visible space. It ascends from the pull
of the moon and pushes forward like a panther,

Like a runner in a darkening wood who suddenly sees
The trees don’t block the path, they make the path.

October 11 [Book of October]

October 11

Two nights ago I dreamed of this day:
Sitting up in bed suddenly, eyes

On the clock reading 10:11, although
I had gone to bed after midnight–

Too dark to be mid-morning (and impossible
To sleep through a day in my home)

In my dream I lay back down and slept
Dreamless inside a dream of sleep

Walking through town the next afternoon
The dream came back to me

And I understood
10:11 was a date, not a time

So I waited
Until today but nothing happened

Still something arrived
Like the absence of a body in

A favorite t-shirt maybe that was
What the dream was about

In a Dream [from Vanishing Tracks]

In a Dream [from Vanishing Tracks]

In a dream I am in a car
racing backwards in slow motion
through a neighborhood being progressively
unbuilt, earth and foundation
appearing as shingles and windows fly away,
sod pulled up from red clay, native
shrubs waiting for the foundations to liquidize
and evaporate then moving back in,
and finally large rocks which we
never moved to make way for the houses
that were not built after all
and the road itself turns to gravel then dirt
undergrowth and pine needles rushing in,
and as the car itself begins to loosen
the sky darkens with shadows
coming towards me at the
speed of trees never cut down

*

[Another poem from from the series “Markers” and the book Vanishing Tracks.]

To a Reader of a Dream

To a Reader of a Dream

The unfocused object

makes the moonlight beautiful. It is not the other way.
I edge along the side of the dream like a raccoon

along the shadow of a house. To anyone passing
by or peering from a darkened window

I will look not unlike some masked fulfillment,
but then you would have to explain what you were

doing in my dream.

Humble Poem #1 [Garden Drive]

Humble Poem #1 [Garden Drive]

 

I’m grateful for this quiet night, and sleep
and waking from a dream of my children

in my childhood home they’ve never seen,
staying up late singing “Dance, Dance, Dance”

with their uncle my brother around the living room

Meaning of a Dream

Meaning of a Dream

Alone in the house, in my bedroom, turning to go. The door to the closet is shutting, though I hadn’t noticed it open, I cross the room and walk into it. The closet stretches out around the house, goes around the back of the fireplace up here on the second floor, continues on, and someone is walking with her back to me. Hey, I say. What are you doing here? Who are you? She continues as if a ghost who didn’t hear me. I speed up to a trot around another corner. The closet begins to look like the basement of my grandmother’s house. I used to run as a child in a thin alley between the wood paneled walls of the bar my grandfather and father built in one half of the basement and the concrete wall of the foundation, with its wires and water pipes and mousetraps, though it was just a ranch in those days it expanded with the adventurous mind, had strange back alleys like a little town. I cannot catch up, I raise my voice, Hey! Come back, who are you? At the same time I can hear an echo of my voice, but it’s not an echo, it’s an actual voice coming from a man asleep on his bed, sounding to my inner ear like a bleating sheep, even though I can still hear myself loud and clear and strident as I lose ground in the chase, and my wife begins coaxing me awake with some words I cannot quite hear, and then I’m pulled backwards and downwards, as if my being is slipping out of my head and filling up the space in my waking body. I sit up. In the dark I shuffle to my desk and turn on the lamp. I know what this dream means, I just need to write it down,  it’s about how the people and memories that inhabit your mind do not answer to you, they come and go in ways you cannot control, and whether it’s my mother’s vanished memory of our entire family history or my own memories or simple deciduous thoughts sprouting decoratively and cycling through their dream seasons I also know that this poem is how I’ll own it, exert some control over it in this part of my life bound to time and sleep, this is how I’ll remember not to take it personally that I’m not the one who owns this house, there’s some other me in another room who just saw this moment of his life walk by without so much as acknowledging him. When I wake up a few hours later I cannot read a word that I wrote, but I can follow the shape of it as it walks away on the page in the morning light and describe that.

A Day at the Beach

A Day at the Beach

We foresee our deaths

sacrifice the days one after the other to a slow motion panic
believing if we are senseless in a consistent and calm manner

that we can’t be blamed for not being ready for the only thing
we knew was coming

If time moves in a wave then behind us
foams a wake of wasted moments wasted the moment

we look back given up to the future day that never asked for sacrifice
and that never arrives

and if it did would never be any longer than a wasted day

How is it that giving up on a dream translates always
in any language into not doing something we could do

today in the wakeful world right now instead
we plant the sharp end and open slowly the gorgeous umbrella

of panic beneath the sun of death