' What Should Our Dreams, To Us, Convey...? '

01/08/12

To my always dear and valued friends, and ever kind, and loyal readers, it is now near 2:00 PM on an otherwise quiet Sunday; so pleasant, that I wish to spend ( if you will but allow ) with you, some thought out reverie, or perhaps some little bit of quiet news.  Although I hurt with ‘global’ pain that obscures my computer screen again, and oh…I broke my glasses, stepping on them in the night, and so I must view my tired and jaded world with but one eye, and compromising sight; believe me, it is sufficient to my needs, as who needs 20/20 vision to feel such pain, and cry.

However, though I retired last night, so very late, and woke up early , taking pain pills, hoping that—with them—most of my pain would abate; and so it has, but leaves me dull.  Gamely, I tried with many cigarettes and coffee to try to ignore it full, ‘though, as an afterthought, some lingering distress remains.

But to all my dear friends whom I freely love; who never stray far from my heart of hearts, that this—perhaps, explains, why I, in some quiet poetic frame, might ever hope to move you to a place far from your pains.

‘  What Should Our Dreams, To Us, Convey…?  ‘

I

What should our dreams, to us, convey...?  Something no worse

than sight of dewy petals, as from some rosebud burst;

or, some happy, half-remembered but of childhood verse.

Or like some wind-up circus where—at first—

Is seen a pretty lady on an horse, while acrobats and painted clowns rehearse.

Of princely hoards of candies, rare, surrounded with sufficient icy lemonade to quench one’s thirst.

II

Conveyed should be the views of fabled past

Where dashing, charging knights slay all monstrous dragons to the last;

of banquets in a castle hall, where noble knights and princesses dance a slow pavanne neath roped, candled chandeliers hang bright overhead, each tied with a knotted last,

where heavy, ancient, oakened doors creek on ironed hasp.

The tales of Quest, and rightfully boastful songs by morning’s awakening, too quickly fade and pass.

III

Our dreams should reveal the wayward path to a secret garden shown;

With scent of brilliant flowers all unknown,

with gentle smell of grass new mown.

A quiet place to which the rancors of a pained, and half-resented day have flown.

A most delightful place, a tonic for all previous sins; a chance to redeem, and to atone.

And…thus forgived, to lie in this magic place, alone.

IV

This gardened spot should with its sheer evanescence sway.

All through the night, all pain forgot, as are the trials of a pain-filled day.

Those mossed, and twisting paths would surly find a way

To some safe pace, where even tired adults can play

To their delight, with unicorns, and other such-like mythic creatures stay;

and, all can as joyous, happy dance through a bright, and cloudless day.

V

Our dreams should be as sacred as an hymn

heard in some vast, and cloistered satin-glassed cathedral, when

choruses of angels lift their with a merciful and joyous theme within,

that would enthrall a tired, and weary soul, and then

lift it as well to such an holy place, to which a loving God would descend,

to offer soothing, healing touch, and to all would beckon, “ Enter In.”

VI

Our dreams thus revealed, should in a voice...a quiet sigh

explain to all who walk but painfully, while though, in shuttered dreams can fly !

And rise like gilded birds, who, soaring ever high

Can hardly see the earth, below, nor indeed anything beneath a brighted sky;

that we—perhaps—could do all things, if only we but try;

could we but overcome our foes, our fears, our pains

that, daily, would confront us with their dissembling lies.

VII

Our fever’d dreams should nightly take us to a place

wherein all past and present ailments race;

far flung from despairing or repressed horror to that space

that knows no limit, off’ring cure to that disease which ‘has no face.’

Instead, forgive us, and the mockery of those who cannot understand our souls is banished, ‘till just a trace

of it remains.  And we awake, thus chastened, with drying tears upon our face.

VII

Must we awake—instead—garlanded with pain, despair, and longing full arrayed ?

For we, too, were young once, and fearless, thinking ourselves invulnerable, unafraid;

ignoring future ills and sorrows as they came, to leave us reeling and dismayed ?

In base reality, we now awake to find, again, our faces lined with age, with load of care displayed;

Again, the daily loneliness, and dreadful, whoresome pain, is trotted out upon the stage: a one-act scene of misery and deprivation played;

when, in some peaceful, guarded, healing dream, ALL tortures can be waved.

End

I love you dearly,

‘Zahc’