The Wakefulness of Dreaming

I don’t know if I dream.

There are tangible cries in the silence of a palpable night
sensed full of presences unseen. Yet, they urge my eyes
to turn never away from my own urge to plunge into the depths
of visions, maybe certainties, maybe doubts that were and are
no more, maybe answers to questions suspended somewhere
between the tangible cries and this palpable night of silence
that we share.

There are also mornings, in a subliminal stream that flows
from a source of words describing colours and tiny wild flowers
that may blossom amidst rocks scattered upon fading imprints
of steps still warm, although the feet were undeniably naked
when they touched the ground as if they were meeting
the unutterable airiness of clouds. And there are birds
or there were, because they’ve flown away from their
still clear and defined essence of wings upon a sky
so much like a score that unheard songs are preludes
and fugues perched upon the same lines, being composed
yet already played before an audience of hushed
breaths and waving hands.

There is no coherence in this space and time where
all absurdity is nonetheless percipient and tastes
like bread that has been craved for by lips of souls
who know they don’t live by virtuality alone
yet may happen to starve before evidence inherently
bursting with grain. Somehow, this whole structure
of replicas evolving from and around their own
matching dissimilarities, reminds me of love
of that state with ever undefined contours
which all swear upon when they seek
and believe they have found, only to deny
when the silhouette sought has found its reflection
in the profile of another quest. And this takes me
back and yet forward, as this reminder of love’s ambiguity
becoming the clearest of revelations when time and space
are irrelevant before the unfathomable pertinence
of simply and fully being, suddenly echoes to perfection
the harmonies of dream in dissonant melodies of wakefulness.

And I still don’t know if I dream, but to know is
beside the point when being here is the whole cause
and its whole consequence.

So, I wake up, I don’t know why, as a boatwoman
at the center of a pond of departures tracing beams
like those of a sun or any other star mirrored in still water
and which come to meet at the end of the oars on either side
of my own stillness, not quite like that of an arrival.

I know, yes, now I know that I’m here only to go on.

For I am but an element in the structure of a passage
considered from the perspective, ever shifting
of its chordal relationships with other elements
other dreams, other centers of nowhere holding the impulse
to everywhere and to rippled arrivals at the departures
of mine and endless other boats.

And so I also know that I’m not alone in this shifting stillness
as my hands in other hands, my words in other words
my breath in other breaths and my soul
as one with other souls, begin to row.

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations

(Yet another poem that evaded the restrictions of time. ;0)

Hugs and Love to you all!)