Tag Archives: dreams

dream catcher in the wry

today I chased a
dream to ground
it was none too grand
a simple longing more
I should have known
the result would be
less than thrilling
the dream I caught
it turned to dust
on touch and so
it left me feeling
chronically aware
of the emptiness
within me and how
with a certain irony
I suffer this urge to go
hunt another vision.

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an ode to the field of broken dreams

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(photo by lorem ipsum)

an ode to the field of broken dreams

when a field once filled with
dreams has gone to seed
what happens to those dreams
does hope survive amongst the weeds
or are all our dreams destined to
be laid to rest in faded chalk and dust
while empty bleachers buckle and rust
bereft of cheer for either the eyes or ears
—family and friends having long disappeared

and what of the champions of such dreams
what of the home team long disheartened
have they too retreated defeated to their houses or
does each fight on alone to keep the dream alive
waiting only for that triumphant day to arrive
when (refusing to let all that’s been dreamt slowly
fade and die) once more as one will they take to the
fields of vision and defend the everyday dreams of the
common dreamer in us all.


insomnia as an article of faith

it’s a sacrificial tendency to
want to save pillows/people
from their feather-down fates
for what is it worse to be? the first
or last of one’s kind who retreats
into sleep, perchance to dream
so as to feel the teeth of the felt prowl
wolf pack who feed their master while
they eat their young or to rather be
the god that failed or its creature
that lives with its head in the clouds
of nostradamus’s oily scrying bowl
prophesying the future harvest
of souls right before the very eyes of
our disbelieving four-shadowed race.


An ode to the Goodyear blimp

It’s days like this
I wish I’d studied law
like I was meant to
rather than scratching
out an existence as
an anonymous poet bum

there is no retirement fund
for self-funded scribblers and
the perks of sleeping in
are wearing thin, as is
the fact no one will look me
in the eye when I say I’ve
had a good year again

and now even my own dreams
conspire against me telling
me I’ve chosen the wrong path
I should have studied law they say
but I threw it all away to study
the whispers of clouds and
the daydreams that keep
piling up inside my head
not to mention the view.


The Ghost of Porlock’s Least Favorite Son

I’ve decided to name Coleridge’s infamous person from Porlock Bennett Channing. By way of background, for those of you who are unsure of whom I speak, the mysterious Mr Channing is that inconsiderate (and previously anonymous) personage responsible for rousing Samuel Taylor Coleridge (STC) from his slumber, at the exact moment the great Romantic poet had been busily composing his masterwork Kubla Khan, while under the influence of an opium-induced reverie.

Immediately upon waking (or so the story goes) STC had next promptly forgotten the greater part of what would go on to become one of the most revered poems within English literature. For evidently the poem as we know it is but a mere fragment of a supposedly more complete work of genius lost due to said misfortune.

Likewise, I too have experienced my very own “Bennett Channing”-moment this very morning. Hence, my obvious eagerness to “name and shame” that oafish interloper who would banish nocturnal poetic invention by visiting unbidden on business unspecified.

In my own case, I had been blissfully dreaming of my writing the perfect blog post, when I was awoken rudely mid-dream by the sound of the bedroom door creaking inward, as though opening of its own accord. Immediately whereupon all knowledge of the “perfect post” in question’s topic and content were completely lost to me, receding after the manner of mist being met by the first rays of the rising dawn sun.

With no logical explanation to account for why the bedroom door should have acted in such a way, I have since been forced to infer that I have fallen prey to the ghost of Coleridge’s selfsame person from Porlock, still roaming the land and looking for dreams of unusual genius to dispel.

There seems to be no other suitable conclusion that I can reach to account for my tragic loss. Which is why I wish to identify both Coleridge’s and my intellectual assailant, for evermore, as being none other than one Mr Bennett Channing. So that you too, who read this, should not suffer the same sorry fate.

But what of the “perfect post”, to which I have alluded earlier, I hear you ask? Alas, I remember nothing more about it other than, maddeningly, that it was truly perfect…

So, damn you, Mr Bennett Channing! Ghost or no ghost, you have no right barging your way into the sleeping sanctity of an inventive writer’s dream-life. Damn you, back to hell, sirrah, I say! For on the honeydew of the perfect blog post [I] hath fed, only to be next awoken and left with nothing but the taste of ashes remaining in my mouth! Good day, to you, most foul fiend!


The Dreaming Tree

From its branches
Hangs every answer
To those questions
Nocturnal minds
So want answered
The bat-winged queries
And owl-hooted theories
As well as Nightwood
Wishes past
From deep within
Its bark of darkness
The Tree of Dreams
Sends forth roots of starless
Meaning to set the minds
Of dreamers’ reeling
Until daylight hours
Should dispel the shades
Of our soul’s truth
Fast retreating.


“Living the Dream” — Spiritual Alchemy in Action

“Follow your dreams” is a phrase we hear all the time. But how often do any of us actually take this advice to heart?

Well, anyhow, for the last few days I’ve been doing exactly just that — following a dream. And by dream I mean a literal dream. In other words the kind of dream we experience when we are asleep.

So, to elaborate, I had this dream a couple of months ago, in which I was deliberating about where I would most like to live. What was unusual, though, was that the dream next actually also provided me with a specific location, in answer to what represented the ideal place for me to relocate to.

Okay, let’s fast forward two months to now and cue music for a “road trip” montage. Because that’s what I’m currently doing, in fact. You see, I’m on a road trip to check out this prophesied land of milk and honey, as named in my dream.

It’s a 1500 kilometer round trip. And I’m not sure what it is I’m expecting to find at the end of the rainbow. But I’m following my dream just the same.

It’s a long shot, sure. But after spending all day driving and thinking about how I wanted to write today’s blog about following your dreams I randomly stopped in at a small, country cafe.

And guess what the first thing my eyes fell upon as I entered said cafe, hungry from spending all day searching for a sign I wasn’t on some sort of wild goose chase?

If you want to know what it was, take a look at the photo I took with my iPhone, below…

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