The Dream People Database

I guess, by this time, I have dreamed a full three or four days.
In real time, years and years.
I have been married many times, but
How do I contact my husbands, and
maybe one or two wives?

I am super sorry I murdered that person,
but apparently, he was one of the Uncounted,
and no one came looking. He may have been
one of my husbands.
It has become a bit fuzzy.

It’s crazy crowded over there where
the planes have shifted, and I seem to know
so many people.
I need my dead friend’s number! Please help.
We had such fun last night, and I forgot to ask.

I’ll look for the directory next time I go,
really,
if I can only manage to turn on a light.

light-bulb

Three Domestic Haikus

Thread the needle, dear,
and sew a new tomorrow.
Hooray, seam ripper!
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My thumb is not green.
I need plants I cannot kill.
One of these still lives.
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A nest for we two
and a cat to make us three.
Warmth, light, love, secured.
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The Bachelor Mockingbird

I am not sure what the ladies don’t see in him.

Do their ears hear a dissonance, or a lacuna in his melodic line
that my human hearing does not register?

He smiths his song day and night,
and weehours morning as well,
driven, sleep-deprived.

(Is his prospective mate a night-owl, too, dawdling at dawn
with her feathers or just chatting with friends?)

His inexhaustible joy and longing
has infected the neighborhood
with a kind of pleasant unease.

When he falls silent
Should we be happy?
Perhaps his top-40 has drawn a mate!

Then he begins anew,
and we smile sadly
yet
pleased to have our work and play accompanied
by his hopeful soundtrack.

Courtesy Cornell Ornithology Lab

Mockingbird Display, photo and birdsong courtesy Cornell Ornithology Lab

Hi Ants. Hants.

There is no good reason
to kill these stinky little ants.

They are not eating the house,
and are not much interested in
cat food.

Unlike other such creatures,
they don’t even leave evidence.

But they assume too much,
coming and going,
scouting and reconnaissance,
their egg-bejeweled queen somewhere out of sight.

They come in from the wet
or the dry
or the cold (or is it the heat)?

If only they had stayed hidden
I wouldn’t have to feel guilty
about my compulsion to descend from on high
and smash them with my bare fingers.

I am sorry, ants.
Sants.

 

The Adder Stone

The thing about stones is
they are only about time.

Time to take their shape
time for a hole to form,
the time I was walking on the beach or river path
and found them.

From what I understand,
the holes can mean something was there and is gone,
or
the stone was in the way of a particularly torturous drop of water.

That is a story only the stone can tell,
but either way, something was lost.

Someone tells me such stones are talismans,
protection against loss. Well,
I don’t buy it.
The stone is witness and proof against it.

My parents would sometimes find me adder stones
in their American travels.
They didn’t protect against the loss of my father
and the drip drip of time that made the hole he fell into.
That is too much to expect of a stone, or anything
for that matter.

My stones are only about time:
not eternity, but memory,
traveling toroidally
around the hole
left by loss.

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