Monday, January 15, 2024

Those Slippery Dreams

 Get ready for some HARE-raising poetry!
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth
and Shiva Neupane
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

They’re slippery little critters, those dreams. They are toothpaste squeezing out of your fists that melts into morning. They leave a slime trail on the window that evaporates as soon as you notice it’s there. They tease you into believing they hide under the stack of junk mail you never get through. By the time all that mail is scattered on the table and floor, you forget what you were looking for. You can’t trap them with a butterfly net or a dreamcatcher. They tickle your brain and escape to a dreamscape that haunts you to distraction until you return the next night.
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 
of Stephen Kingsnorth

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

How do we manage fearsome dreams?
Substantial horrors, nightly dealt,
yet insubstantial in their form,
so often passing with the dawn,
yet saved repeats, continual loop.

Might late night cheese or drinks provoke,
but likely unforgiven smears,
the lifetime albatross rehung,
in tension, panic, looming tears,
forgotten lectures, clothes, no loo.

Escape is, for a nightmare, gloss,
a fire exit, though rarely found.
Though scape alone, redundant term,
for I’ve not known such picture frame
so screened, landscape or portrait scened.

My peers report their medicines cause
the worst of mares in ghastly storms.
But mine, clear founded on my fear
of what would happen if I did
fail to deliver what I should.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

—Stephen Kingsnorth

So what of dreamscape as the best,
one image that evokes the rest,
to childish mind, excitement dressed
as pleasure simply unalloyed,
medicament known by self alone?

I’ll brief recount that foreign land,
my heaven, to you quite alien,
though surely you can dwell as well,
share with yourself own children thrills,  
revisit spells, your wonderland?

Wrought iron, squat gate fore the drive—
that had been timber in our days—
sundial grass as frontispiece,
pink-wash, verandah, timbered cream,
the final house before the greens.

And white, to suit lawn tennis courts
small wicket gate, then pristine, clean,
(recovered, ’80’s video)
for neither entry, or for block,
but for the set, our paradise,

Plates, willow pattern, clotted cream,
pram push past pavement ‘picture ma’am?’,
sand dug ‘daddy boats’, donkey rides,
the black white blur through album, glass,
to see that tingle, my face, past.
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The lonely escape
The undulating scratch of time
The beaded pearl stones
At my fingertips
They show me
A life of pentagon
Epiphanies lull around
All into a spasm
The ravishing ending
Corners lighted up
Forging a new dimension
The revelation of time
Just all around
Squares of life
Shapes and direction
For the time
A pearl bead at my nails
Just honing a new escape
My epiphanies of moments
Carved in a new nest. 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Shiva Neupane

—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

Melbourne is a slice of paradise
Where I had pursued my Utopian life,
By materializing my dream
With every fibre of my being.
The city of Melbourne is marvelous
The landscape is immaculately scintillating
The architectural miraculous is alluringly
The weather is soothingly pleasurable
As when the rain pitter-patters on the streets.
The sunrays and rains swiftly orchestrate
The marriage ceremony
By hoisting the bride vixen on
The sedan of rainbow. 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

My gal Sal, oh what a gal, oh my
Kaboom! won’t happen again Kaboom!
For he’s a jolly good fellow, but what for?
Wine pours emotions before we pour the wine
precision instrument to measure precision
lost my way in the city, no cell phone, lost
big ads to enhance genitalia, big ads
to split hairs in half, or not to
nonetheless I came in last, nonetheless
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


Hell O, how R U

I M fine, thank U

Zerr a lesson 2 day?

Sarcas M


I dea is 2 Q the 8 ball

Bill Yards, Cattle Yards

from 35 to 45 cents/head/day

EZ 2 sell

I’ll bye 100

Nice doing biz with U

Gladly Pay U 2’s day 
—Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Joe Nolan


it was raining
then it stopped
or maybe paused

while a fold of giggling
gods above hold their
remotes, playing a game

one god could charge
rain with delay of game
while another forces
the clouds to back up

another momentarily
blindfolds the human
referee to miss an
obvious infraction

nevertheless, humans
insist on placing their bets
to feed the giggling gods
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

To dream is to float
In bubbles
Across an azure sky

Drifting through a landscape
Unburdened by questions why
Daffodils, in early Spring,
Over meadows,
Run and sing,
While bubbles just drift by.

To dream across a dreamscape
Is not to embrace escape,
It’s more to float
Above our plane,
With beauty to embrace.

Seen in the distance,
Beneath us, vast roiling seas,
Beauty and pleasure surround us—
Sweetness that will never cease. 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Joe Nolan
In bizarro world,
Nothing makes any sense
To anyone in our world
And vice-versa-vice-averse.
Everything is backwards.
Down is up.
Up is down.
Love is pain,
Like my last date.
Future is past.
Hope is fate.
Early, late.
Cafe latte
Is boiled silt
With no milk.

Income tax is
Winning the lottery,
War is pax.
It’s not hard
If you practice with mirrors,
Stand on your head
And dance on your ceiling.
In bizarro world
You cry without feeling,
Laugh without knowing the meaning
Of jokes to which you don’t listen.
You drink so you can
Stay sober
And crucify your prophets.
Eventually, your planet
Stops spinning,
Then reverses.
Polar ice-caps
Devolve into tropics.
Deserts turn into swamps.
Bizarro can happen
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Joe Nolan

Here and now is not enough.
We require more infinite stuff.
Not only for today,
But for every day,
That persist,
We insist,
Because we like it that way,

Salvation in extension of today,
Into infinity,
Beyond what we can see
With our minds
Or our eyes,
Into which we feel—
The spinning of a wheel,
Come what may.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Joe Nolan

A cat was a furry, sad poet
As he sat upon a fence
Willing to stare
At whoever might glare back,
As though he did not like him
Or cats in general
Or cats sat atop his fences.
At last, there was nothing to say.
Cats are often that way—
Difficult to read.
After awhile,
They just go away. 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan


Our thanks to today’s contributors from here, there, and elsewherz, as they sing of Dreamscapes, our current Seed of the Week. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Sixteen Rivers Press, a nonprofit poetry collective dedicated to providing an alternative publishing avenue for Northern California poets, is currently open for submissions of book-length poetry manuscripts, with the submission window closing on February 1, 2024. Submission is free! To find out more about this opportunity, visit Sixteen Rivers home page ( AND/OR its Submit Work page (

And stop by the Kitchen this coming Wednesday for more poetry by Sayani Mukherjee!


—Medusa, wishing you a peaceful day of remembrance and dreams on this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, 2024.
 —Public Domain Poster Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A reminder that Poetry in Motion
read-around in Placerville
this morning has been cancelled;
but Sac. Poetry Center will present
an open mic in honor of
Martin Luther King, Jr.
tonight in Sacramento, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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