Tag Archives: poems

Night Harvest

Nothing like a creepy dream after weeks of not remembering any.

 

It’s important to be

Silent, in these woods.

A garbage truck growls by,

Prowling its way through the trees,

And I stay low,

Wait for it to pass.

The hill I need isn’t far in

But you have to leap a deep ravine

To get to it.

I jump, throw myself

At the lines of clothes and bedding

Strewn through the branches.

I manage to grab a blanket

Before I tumble down the other side,

Landing at a roll in

Grass singed to coarse sparseness.

I cannot be in this open space

For long, so I tear

The rest of my catch away

From the wood, and run.

It’s all I needed for tonight, anyway.

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New Wings

This dream felt eerily real.

 

I look in the mirror in this

Darkened room, the glass stained

From years of dust and disuse.

While the others plan, I turn my back

To my reflection, remind myself

Of the way I can help. All it would take

Would be wings, if I could grow them.

I picture them, warm in my core, and

My skin splits, in two long slices of

Rawness and blood, from which press,

Like birth, feathers and joints and long

Hollow bones. The weight of them

Drags, but is manageable, especially as

I still cannot quite believe I have them,

Some years early, and bloody, but ready

To fight alongside the rest.

Waterfront

I wouldn’t wholly mind it if I had this commute in real life.

 

I’ve come this way before,

To visit my girlfriend where she works

In the city. You have to pass

The corner where construction

Is underway, the vehicles large and yellow,

Loud as they rip the concrete.

Children are always playing there

This time of day, a group with a ball

I worry, every time, will smack me

In the face as I walk by.

It doesn’t this time, either.

Then it’s the waterfront, and a long,

Narrow boardwalk to climb.

The stairs that lead to its wooden planks

Are, today, covered with tide,

And I wade up them, drip

Onto the dry slats

As I slowly make my way across

Miles of open sea.

Demon Bus

I have no idea about this one.

 

We wait for the bus, she and I,

Both cynics with cigarettes.

You have to cross the street

From where the human bus

Picks up, wait between parked cars

For the long, black coach bus

With tinted windows to hit the curb.

A sycophant or two lurk out,

Telling secrets they’ve sniffed up

To their returned masters.

We pass them without a glance,

Climb aboard, and choose our seats

From rows and rows and rows

Of demons, like us.

I pick a reclining one, slide back

And start a book. It will be

A long ride.

Last Call

I have actually stayed out this late once or twice. From my experiences, though, I wouldn’t recommend it except in dreams.

 

We hop late-night bars,

On this strip of well-lit

Cobblestone shadows.

Ours will be open for hours yet,

The owners friends of our rag-tag

Group, but the bathroom is full

When I need it,

So I lean outside to check the others.

In one, people sit

In long rows of chairs,

Soft blue movie light

Playing over their faces.

I don’t want to interrupt a midnight

Feature, so I shift to the next, where

A single man is mopping up

For the night.

He has kind brown eyes,

So I plead for him

To let me use the restroom

For just a second, before he closes.

He accepts, though I hear

From the stall, another girl come in,

Ask the same, and I fear

I may have caused him some

Little trouble.

 

To Hide a Polar Bear

Really not sure where this dream came from. Though I’m not looking forward to summer heat.

 

We decide to hide the polar bear

In my room,

A small dorm not quite suited

To holding something so large, but

The only place we have left.

I set up a tarp

Over a pen, keep the air conditioner

On high right beside it, so that the air

Will stay trapped and cold,

Though I know not cold enough.

The bear is large, thick-coated

And warm, when we pull it in.

I touch its face, and hope

This will be very temporary.

Tattoos Again

I’m getting another tattoo, so this dream is easy enough to figure the source of except for that rhino with a cake.

 

The shop I need

Is in a tattoo bazaar –

Stall after stall of flash on the wall

And separate lighting, separate flooring,

For each one, as if

You’d be standing in a full shop,

But miniature.

We look through some

Of the other art, until the man

Who will do my 3-hour design

Says he’s ready.

There’s another piece I like,

I say to my friends, and they both

Beg me not to say

It’s the rhino with the cake,

Because they both want it.

The rhino is painted along the back wall,

Cute and illustrative.

But I meant an idea for a sleeve

On my artist’s pinboard,

Of a bird on a branch,

Both drawn with chemical formulas

For lines.