Hidden Talents

This blog may end up being one that updates on Saturdays or Sundays, with the dreams I’ve had all week backed up. I’m not sure, but it seems likely.


My cousin competes

In a game, just for fun,

Of tennis inside

The home of a rich friend.

I didn’t know

He could play, but

His dexterity

Is stunning.

And mine, after years

Of neglect, is

Devolved so far,

I cannot return

The ball that has shot

Out of bounds, with

The racket in my hands.

There’s a Vet for Everything

It was a cute bird, though a weird one. I don’t know if I’d want to keep it if I met it in real life.


It’s like a bird, but it

Has a long rope of a tail

Like a cat’s,

And it can talk.

I cup it in my hands, because

It has a stripe of a wound

Where no feathers grow,

Red rawness right at its

Tail’s base. It tells me

All the vets it’s been to,

And how it hates every one,

So I assure it

I’ll take it somewhere new.


Sometimes my dreams feel like they’d have a lot more meaning for someone with a more exciting life than I lead.


We play

At killing,

Each with plastic weapons to

Pretend to vanquish

Our opposing fighter.

But my weapons


Draw blood from whomever I face,

However many times I change them.

Deep wells of red,

That don’t stop weeping.

In the corner, a girl adds

Grenadine to a cup of it,

And drinks until it stains her teeth.


Two months of a new job and a kitten create a lot of backup, and only four remembered dreams. But here’s the first!


It becomes a quest –

Search the maze

Of my therapist’s building

To find the door that leads

To the supplemental sessions I want.

There are

So many –

Hula dancing therapy,

Library therapy,

All with a paper sign on the window

And a recreation of the environment

In miniature, within.

I’ve chosen cats,

The last in the building

In a pet shop, next to dogs.

Avoiding the Queen

When there’s no Game of Thrones on TV, my dreams make up the difference.


The only thing saving us

Is her stupidity –

Cersei, when she searches,

Does a poor job of scanning.

So we keep low, run while she’s distracted,

Move behind benches to avoid her gaze.

We make it to a cart, in the yard,

In direct view of her windows but

Filled with plenty of fruit and rags,

Thick things to hide our faces.

It’s a prisoners’ cart, but we aren’t chained,

And those who are seem subdued enough.

We trundle away in it, safer to jump it

Later than stay and be caught by her.