earth dreams of spring
in her winter slumbers
she dozes on and off —
then trembles wide awake
a silent green earthquake
dreams
Summer-nap
I drifted into a summer-nap
under the hot shade of July
serenaded by a cicada lullaby
to drowsy-warm dreams
of distant thunder…
P.S. Thank you to everyone who let me know about USA Today and King Features Syndicate using this poem for their July 5th Cryptoquote.
Run for it!
Chase down your passion like it’s the last bus of the night.
The path
Follow your passion, and success will follow you.
Dreams & greens
For happy health, fuel yourself with dreams and greens.
Bumpy fright
A nightmare is only a dream that hits turbulence.
Dream power
Never stop pedaling to power your dreams.
Bedwriting
it’s smart as can be
things that make sense in our dreams
when we wake — insane
Strangely normal
in dreams
time is broken
we ride the shards
or they pierce
our sight —
we see with
different eyes
and know with
deeper mind
Pink pony
“Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven’t thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed.”
—Robert Brault, rbrault.blogspot.com
The Wharf of Dreams
Strange wares are handled on the wharves of sleep:
Shadows of shadows pass, and many a light
Flashes a signal fire across the night;
Barges depart whose voiceless steersmen keep
Their way without a star upon the deep;
And from lost ships, homing with ghostly crews,
Come cries of incommunicable news,
While cargoes pile the piers, a moon-white
Budgets of dream-dust, merchandise of song,
Wreckage of hope and packs of ancient wrong,
Nepenthes gathered from a secret strand,
Fardels of heartache, burdens of old sins,
Luggage sent down from dim ancestral inns,
And bales of fantasy from No-Man’s Land.
—Edwin Markham, “The Wharf of Dreams,” The Man with the Hoe and Other Poems, 1899
Sir Reality
Some colors exist in dreams that are not present in the waking spectrum.
Unrealistic
I’m trapped in reality —
Come rescue me, angel of dreams.
blackout poetry created from Connie Willis, Passage, 2001