—Poetry by Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog,
North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
DREAM CATCHERS
These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Breakfast, April 21, 2016)
These hairy, feathery, stringy things
are supposed to catch my dreams,
but I don’t believe it.
I’ve hung them above my bed and
inspected them carefully in the morning
but I’ve never found a dream caught
in them,
Not even a tiny dreamlet.
No,
they’re just a trick,
a deception, to make me feel
I can capture them and relive them
when I want to.
But I can’t.
No one can ever go back to a dream.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Breakfast, April 21, 2016)
IN DREAMS
Do you dream in colour,
Do you dream in colour,
or are your dreams grey,
muted monochromes,
pale imitations of reality.
Are they flat almost featureless
in a blurred mist,
or are they stark
black and white.
No grey.
No doubt.
Are your sleeping eyes prisms
to reflect the outside in,
in a spectrum of rainbowed glory.
Or are you afraid.
Afraid to let it enter
your unconsciousness.
Afraid to set it free
to make a kaleidoscope
of shades and tones
to recreate
a new reality
in glorious colour.
Do you remember?
(prev. pub. in The Drabble, September 2018)
(prev. pub. in The Drabble, September 2018)
POOL
I have a small pool
out there.
Not dark like night, but
full of pale milky light
and shimmering smoothly,
ripple-less.
It's not deep either,
hardly more than
a footfall.
Just deep enough
to hide my dreams
without them drowning.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Breakfast, September 2016)
I have a small pool
out there.
Not dark like night, but
full of pale milky light
and shimmering smoothly,
ripple-less.
It's not deep either,
hardly more than
a footfall.
Just deep enough
to hide my dreams
without them drowning.
(prev. pub. in Poetry Breakfast, September 2016)
GREEN DREAMS
I am dreaming, I think
I’m dreaming
as I try to separate the layers
of real and unreal,
peel them away like the crinkled leaves
of a cabbage.
I’m peeling off the dark green leaves first.
What lies hidden beneath looks
much the same as the outside,
a little less battered, more crinkly,
a little paler with some yellow
languishing in the green,
but fundamentally the same.
Now for the next layer.
There’s a drop of water
shining full of light
and something darker, more solid,
khaki green and brown,
the leavings of some hidden creature.
Another layer reveals the holes
and then,
the sleepy caterpillar
in his cabbage camouflage,
his dietary disguise,
dreaming
of eating his greens.
He’s without his pipe,
without his crown.
So, unsure of
his identity,
much less mine,
I continue my peeling
layer after layer until
I get to the heart of it,
the pale, pale green centre
of naive youth.
Perhaps
I will soon understand
where I’ve come from
and unpack the dream,
find the pipe, put the pieces
together,
make sense of the cabbage,
crown the king.
(prev. pub. in The Paragon Journal, Issue 13, 2018)
I am dreaming, I think
I’m dreaming
as I try to separate the layers
of real and unreal,
peel them away like the crinkled leaves
of a cabbage.
I’m peeling off the dark green leaves first.
What lies hidden beneath looks
much the same as the outside,
a little less battered, more crinkly,
a little paler with some yellow
languishing in the green,
but fundamentally the same.
Now for the next layer.
There’s a drop of water
shining full of light
and something darker, more solid,
khaki green and brown,
the leavings of some hidden creature.
Another layer reveals the holes
and then,
the sleepy caterpillar
in his cabbage camouflage,
his dietary disguise,
dreaming
of eating his greens.
He’s without his pipe,
without his crown.
So, unsure of
his identity,
much less mine,
I continue my peeling
layer after layer until
I get to the heart of it,
the pale, pale green centre
of naive youth.
Perhaps
I will soon understand
where I’ve come from
and unpack the dream,
find the pipe, put the pieces
together,
make sense of the cabbage,
crown the king.
(prev. pub. in The Paragon Journal, Issue 13, 2018)
WHERE LIES REALITY
In my sweet dreams
I can float and swim like a fish.
Can extract air from the water,
as they do.
And breathe it out
in pretty chains of bubbles.
But in my dark dreams,
the nightmarish ones,
this is just a pretense.
The only air is within me
and the bubbles lost to me
which soon will cease
as I continue to float
upwards.
Can reality lie
in my dreams?
(prev. pub. in Event Horizon, December 2017)
In my sweet dreams
I can float and swim like a fish.
Can extract air from the water,
as they do.
And breathe it out
in pretty chains of bubbles.
But in my dark dreams,
the nightmarish ones,
this is just a pretense.
The only air is within me
and the bubbles lost to me
which soon will cease
as I continue to float
upwards.
Can reality lie
in my dreams?
(prev. pub. in Event Horizon, December 2017)
ONLY DREAM HARDER
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find castles in the air,
or build them.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find secret cities
under the waves
ruled over by a fishy king
with his beady eye on you
as you walk on by.
If you dream hard enough
you’ll find unicorns
and ride them across the desert
to discover lost oases hidden there
amongst ancient cities
once in ruins
now recast
in shimmering perfection
by harsh sunlight.
If you dreamer harder
you’ll rise above the waves of sand
which threaten to engulf you,
float in the sunlight
instead of being buried
head first.
It’s all possible
if you only dream harder.
(prev. pub. in Event Horizon, November 2018)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.
―Langston Hughes
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White of Wales for today’s dreamy poetry! Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com AND/OR https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/.
Lynn White, daydreaming in Blaenau Ffestiniog
Sac. Poetry Center will present the
anthology from its writing groups
(More Than Enough) today at 6pm;
and Out The Way on J will feature
Dre-T and Camille Janae
in Sacramento at 7pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
anthology from its writing groups
(More Than Enough) today at 6pm;
and Out The Way on J will feature
Dre-T and Camille Janae
in Sacramento at 7pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
tiny rip in
the dream catcher:
one that got away…
