Archives for posts with tag: dreams

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Thursday’s Gone
by Steve Bogdaniec

Last night
old cassettes and records came to me in a dream
they all ganged up on me
spinning me around
asking me how I liked it for a change

Then CDs and DVDs came by
all shiny and proud
they scoffed at me too
talking about me like I was no better
than outdated magnetic tape technology

The cassettes and the records pushed stop on me
and asked the CDs and DVDs who the hell they thought they were
like they could bully me
but no one better try it

The CD pulled knives
the records had chains
and they started dancing about
in a tightly choreographed fight scene
which is weird, since I’ve never actually seen West Side Story
and yet I knew enough to reference it in my dream

I need to see West Side Story some time
I don’t why I am still waiting
the dream might be my subconscious trying to get me
to finally track it down

In the chaos of the rumble,
I got free
and for some reason God winked at me
I’m pretty sure he started out as a big screen tv
but as he spoke
he morphed into the written word

He told me I was right for standing up to those bullies
and that I was a good kid
by this time, I actually was a kid again
maybe 10

He typed he was proud of me
and that I could be whatever I wanted to be

I woke up crying

It was my radio alarm clock
my parents bought it for me in 1984 from Sears
it still works
the radio was playing Lynyrd Skynyrd
whining about Tuesday being gone
even though it was a Thursday morning

I clicked off the alarm
gave my media collection a sneer
and got ready for work

PAINTING: Eyes That Dream by John Hoyland (2008).

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Steve Bogdaniec is a writer and teacher, currently teaching at Wright College, Chicago, IL, U.S. Steve has had poetry and short fiction published in numerous journals, most recently in Eclectica Magazine, Silver Birch Press, and Jellyfish Review. His work can also be found in the Nancy Drew Anthology: Writing & Art Inspired by Everyone’s Favorite Female Sleuth. Check out stevebogdaniec.com for links to published work and updates on new stuff!

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dreams I dreamed
by Mark A. Fisher

I am still waiting
for a future I’ll never know
like the ghost of this house
lingering with unfinished business

I am still waiting
for a past that fades
like the sepia-toned photos
of people without any names

I am still waiting
in a now that hurts
like a sunburnt back
always peeling away in layers

I am still waiting
to be remembered
like the words on a page
in a universe doomed to forget

the wishes of a child
of blown out candles
like the dreams I dreamed
all this time I’m still waiting

PAINTING: The Birthday Cake by Le Pho (1975).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When I started this poem, the tenses just seemed to come naturally, since “waiting” implied a tense, as did “still.” The other stanzas mirrored back at me, and so the last stanza became a mirror too.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mark A. Fisher is a writer, poet, and playwright living in Tehachapi, California. His poetry has appeared in Angel City Review, A Sharp Piece of Awesome, Altadena Poetry Review, Penumbra, Young Ravens, and many other places. His first chapbook, drifter, is available from Amazon. His second, hour of lead, won the 2017 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Chapbook Contest. His third, rain and other fairy tales, can be downloaded here. His poem “there are fossils” came in second in the 2020 Dwarf Stars Speculative Poetry Competition.

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How to Summon the Dead to Dreams
by Sara Clancy

I wish I knew.

Don’t bother gazing at photos, sharing
old stories or ritualizing your set of mindful
cues. Your dream will be about a late paper
or your car losing its battery on the ice hill
between Laramie and Cheyenne.

Don’t listen to the song she hummed
or read from the hardbound copy of Emma
she gave you. Twice. Don’t make her favorite
angel cake with fudge icing. You will dream
her old blind dog begging crumbs
from your empty plate.

If you try to shake loose a visitation
by recalling a slight or word you wish
you hadn’t said, you will only wake
at 3:49 a.m. night after night
after night.

Don’t cast spells to the chrysocolla marker
where her ashes lie or the hummingbird
feeder that hangs above. You can keep
that green glass bottle filled with sugar water
and sorrow, but it won’t help.

When she does show up in your childhood
kitchen to whisper a wise reminder you won’t
remember in the morning, don’t try to call her
back or recreate the day before. She will come
and go as she chooses.

PHOTO: Summer Silhouette by Justin, used by permission.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I realize that this poem is kind of a cheat. A how-to for something that can’t be done. Still, I wanted to go through the litany of trying because nothing is as comforting as meeting lost loved ones in dreams, and though I can never actually make that happen, each failed attempt brings them briefly into focus.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sara Clancy is a Philadelphia transplant to the Desert Southwest. Her chapbook Ghost Logic won the 2017 Turtle Island Quarterly Editors Choice Award. Her poems have appeared, among other places, in Off the Coast, The Linnet’s Wings, Crab Creek Review, The Madison Review, Open Arts Forum, and Verse Wisconsin. She lives in Arizona with her husband, their two dogs, a cross-eyed cat, and a 26 year old goldfish named Darryl.

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Dream, Day 63
by Zoë Hajec

Unmasked.
Barefoot.
Free and flying.
This is the life I dream of at night in my temporary escape.
Feet pounding against the hot summer sand and cool waves rushing between my toes.
The sun beats down upon my pale skin.
Light hits the vast body of water before me,
shattering into a million pieces.
Birds chirp and fly freely.
The air smells of the fresh green grass on a cool summer’s morning,
when the world’s surfaces are misty with dew droplets.
The air smells of the rough waves of the Great Lakes breaking upon a boulder and spraying its contents like confetti.
I can see the world’s movements in colors.
Vibrant and alive once more,
Rejoicing.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This poem was inspired by a dream I had around day 63 of quarantine. Since the start of the quarantine all anyone ever hears about is what has been lost or canceled. Personally it became too much to constantly think about all the things I couldn’t do anymore, so I started thinking about all the things I could. One of those things is dreaming, and this is my dream.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Zoë Hajec is a high school junior/rising senior heavily involved in her school’s magnet program, CAPA. She enjoys learning and plans to attend a university in the fall of 2021 as a first-generation college student. Zoë also has her own online store called Zoë Dreams on Bonfire, where she sells her shirt designs. In her free time she likes listening to music, reading, and learning sign language. Recently she has begun thinking about creating a blog to publish her writing, offer advice, as well as talk about her online store and her hopes and dreams. Visit her on Twitter and Instagram.

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33 UMBRELLAS
by Jennifer K. Sweeney

In your sleep
the year advanced.
Perhaps in a Japanese rainstorm

33 umbrellas opened at precisely
the same moment—
a ballooning

then a click—
and you were allowed further.
Go with your blue apples

falling from the night-trees.
Go with your muddled
light.

Carve impossible faces
in the pumpkin.
Scoop a net of seeds—

one for the trouble you’ve caused,
the rest for the trouble
you wish you caused.

The skeletons wear marigolds
for eyes.
They let you pass,

lantern-hearted, happy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jennifer K. Sweeney is the author of two poetry collections Salt Memory (Main Street Rag, 2006), available at Amazon.com, and How to Live on Bread and Music (Perugia Press, 2009), available at Amazon.com. Visit the author at jenniferksweeney.com.

Photo by Patcharamai Vutipapornkul

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DREAMERS MAY
by Yoli Ramazzina

Dreamers may saunter, wandering by
With a seemingly far-off look in their eye.

Dreamers may smile as they gaze afar
Their eyes locked upon a twinkling star.
Dreamers may delight in each drop of rain
Slowly rolling down, landing on the windowpane.
Dreamers may bask in the warm, brilliant sun
Neglecting their chores that need to be done.

Dreamers may curl up, retreating inside
Of their own heads, and then they may ride…
A bright wave of rainbows, that blasts them to space
Dreamers may linger in their happy place.
Dreamers may jump, or they may do a dance
Unfazed by logic, and driven by chance.

Dreamers may, with their arms outstretched, reach for the stars
As they contemplate living on Saturn or Mars.
Dreamers have hope.
They have faith.
They believe.
Dreamers also feel sorrow, and shed tears when they grieve.

Dreamers may misstep, they may fall or have slips
Yet they cherish the stardust on their fingertips.
Dreamers see beauty in every detail
From the glow of the moon, to the shell of a snail.
Dreamers get lost in books, words pull them under
Dreamers hearts nearly burst, overflowing with wonder.

Dreamers paint pictures and dreamers tell tales
Dreamers put wind in a ship’s empty sails.
Dreamers may soar far beyond these blue skies
Dreamers may sometimes appear very wise.

Dreamers are many things,
So much more than they seem
Because they have courage.
The courage to dream.

PAINTING:The Dreamer Overwhelming Beauty” by Maria Pace-Wynters. Visit the artist at etsy, wordpress, twitter,  pinterest, and dailypainters.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Yoli Ramazzina was born and raised in the San Fernando Valley (818!), but now resides in Long Beach, California. She is a music lover and a retired KXLU deejay. A certified yoga instructor, she enjoys teaching Kids Yoga as well as Yoga Basics and Vinyasa Flow at local studios in her community. In her free time, she enjoys practicing yoga, reading, gardening, listening to music, drinking good beer, and most of all spending time with her husband, son, and their two rescued pups, Nom-Nom and Lucy. You can find Yoli on tumblr or on Facebook.

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BIRDS APPEARING IN A DREAM
By Michael Collier

One had feathers like a blood-streaked koi,

another a tail of color-coded wires.

One was a blackbird stretching orchid wings,

another a flicker with a wounded head.
 
All flew like leaves fluttering to escape,

bright, circulating in burning air,

and all returned when the air cleared.

One was a kingfisher trapped in its bower,
 
deep in the ground, miles from water.

Everything is real and everything isn’t.

Some had names and some didn’t.

Named and nameless shapes of birds,
 
at night my hand can touch your feathers

and then I wipe the vernix from your wings,

you who have made bright things from shadows, 

you who have crossed the distances to roost in me.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Michael Collier is an American poet, teacher, creative writing program administrator and editor. He has published five books of original poetry, a translation of Euripedes‘ Medea, a book of prose pieces about poetry, and has edited three anthologies of poetry. From 2001 to 2004 he was the Poet Laureate of Maryland. As of 2011, he is the director of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, a professor of creative writing at the University of Maryland, College Park, and the poetry editorial consultant for Houghton Mifflin (now Houghton Mifflin Harcourt). (Read more at Wikipedia.org.)

Painting: ”L’Homme au Chapeau Melon” (1964) by René Magritte

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LAST NIGHT I DREAMED OF CHICKENS
by Jack Prelutsky

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see…
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me. 

Painting: “The Mysterious Mystical Chickens” (acrylic on wood, detail) by Penelope Merrell, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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AS MY LIFE IS A DREAM
by Chungmi Kim

I painted a phoenix in bright colors
cut it in nine pieces and cooked it
in a pot at the mountaintop.
I stirred it as if cranking reels of
a movie. Unraveled were a series
of faces in mosaic.

Kurosawa appeared. He asked me
what my story was about.
Tongue-tied, I could not answer.
He handed me a token with a silvery
eagle engraved, ready to fly.

How real I thought everything was
in my dream!

In my waking hour, I see
the remnant of the war between
my head and heart.

Now in cease-fire, my chest is filled
with the fresh breeze of serenity.
I begin to breathe gently as my story
is unraveled like in a movie.

No longer haunted, my love of God soars
as I see my guardian angel smile
in the clear blue sky, transforming to
one gigantic phoenix.

My wandering in the wilderness of
the mind has taught me a little wisdom.
I believe my dreams are real
as my life is a dream.
***
“As My Life Is a Dream” appears in Chungmi Kim‘s collection Glacier Lily (Red Hen Press, 2004), available at Amazon.com.

Image: “Phoenix” by Robert Ball. Prints available at fineartamerica.com.

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SONG FOR A WHITE BALLOON
by Jennifer K. Sweeney

one simple thing
a weightless note full of rise

form as dependent on breath
breath as dependent on lungfuls of habit and duty

two white balloons behind the bone cage
sea-moons buoyant in the sea-body

on the night of her birthday
a woman dreams of a thousand

white balloons pouring
from the curtains of the sea

everything winterish and beautiful
a thousand billowings

failing as pieces of sky fall
all the time and we do not see them

this is the gravity of happiness
giving breath back

the world is possible
and beyond human
***
“Song for a White Balloon” appears in Jennifer K. Sweeney’s collection  How to Live on Bread and Music (Perugia Press, 2009), available at Amazon.com.

Image: “Scattered Crowd,” art installation by William Forsythe. Learn more at williamforsythe.de.