The Dream Exists – Take Two

The Dream Exists, mists naught To Be, misty never Too Bee, tears frozen over brittle rhyme, breaks. The shards pin prick words that impregnate the womb of a writer’s journey, quivering the river veins that flow red across the moving terrain, While the blue arteries twain the pain, amid the blue depth depression that bemoans the poet to cry a lone wail.

The dream exists, somewhere between, sugar coated heaven, and being pure hell, Devil’s cake. There are these multi layers that stack up straight, be tilt skewed, or just collapsed. Like a tornado went threw, like a voodoo be woe-man, playing the “Devil Went To Georgia,” upon bleach white worn out skeletal keys, feeling those Memphis blues. Why it leaves, the body not knowing, where to go; as part plays country, another part rocks Mick away, and the feet feels, John Travolta disco shoes. Wow, must have had too much of that Very Berry Merry Christmas, blueberry bouncing around music punch.

The dream exists, who cares, who gives a damn. Today, we have lost religious compassion, the love thy neighbor, the feeding of the loaves. Wherein a greater Love is shared, amid us being God’s children, being born blessed, within the womb of fertile feminine humanity. Where the futility today, be humbug darn homeless, let them rot somewhere else, out of eye sight. Because - We are better, than them, and live on the other side - of America’s blinders.

The dream exists, for thee to treasure, within a lone a room, womb, tomb. “Do Not Enter Or Trespass Here,” sigh sign, breathes hallow cast, yet hollow caste; upon a prison of self imposed containment, squeezing walls together, in an iron lung, hanging threadbare to a single string, taunt tight as a rubber band ready to snap and break free to ?????

The dream exists, for thee to sea, see shores riding tides wild surf, wind gusts sailing majestic clouds, across magical sensual serene tranquil horizons, wherein bare feet, poets write poetry in smooth, wet sand, as the tide later will wash the message and sandcatles massages out, of existence.

The dream exists, or does it? For within this wandering, wondering mind, be this UniQue UniVerse that no one can see, hear, taste; speak no evil, upon the sense of nerve tenses; quivering in shivering, shrinking folds of silken sheets and blankets, a poet’s womb be fetal positions. Knot to be, naught Too Bee, but a dream extinguished.

THS 1966 Poet