Archive
02/09/09 - (1)
When Poems Become Dreams
For at least three weeks, now, All your dreams have featured you, exclusively, In the contemplative throes of composing poetic creations,
Certainly nothing so grandiose As orchestrating heroic, messianic deeds — Ditching a crippled jetliner, in a river, without fatalities;
Escaping the flames of a raging wildfire; Saving a town, a country, the planet, single-handedly, By vacuuming up the atmosphere's greenhouse gases;
Reviving the nation from the depths of its financial death, Recalling its lost flocks to their jobs, their homes, Preaching "penny saved, penny earned" virtues of self-reliance.
The reason such dreams, replete with superhuman feats, Have given way to acts as lame and lackluster As weaving strands of verse into fragile straw houses —
Illusory structures flimsy enough to disappear in a mere breeze, Poems gossamer and as undependable as whim, In no way capable of surviving waking —
Remains inexplicable, to this very morning (When, again, unable to gather up its fugitive features, I can almost recall writing another "Kubla Khan").
What I do know is this: These oneiric visions leave me gasping for identity, Any sense of self that will help redress my essential emptiness.
02/09/09 - (1)
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