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Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Recurring Dream

In the deep gloom of sleep
I mounted my bay
And turned from the house
Where my body lay.
The fingernail moon
Lay near the horizon
So I tuned us east
And the soon-rising sun.

The intrusive chill
Of the November night
Cut to the bone
In the milky moon light.
I heard the rustle
Of fallen, dry leaves
Tossed from the trees
By small elfin thieves.

The chatter of creatures
At home in the dark
Mixed with owl's hoot
And a distant dog’s bark.
Steam from my bay’s nostrils
Rose upward like smoke
Frosting the night we wore
As a cloak.

I touched the bay’s sides
With the reel of my spur
Going from trot to a run
The trees becoming a blur.
We broke from the wood
To a wide, grassy plain
As the clouds gathered
And started to rain.

No clear destination
Was fixed in my mind.
I knew not what I wanted
Nor intended to find.
It seemed good enough
To my sleep-clouded soul
To permit my horse
Determine our goal.

A slow, autumn rain
Soaked us to the bone.
We were years from my bed
And utterly alone.
Where wends the traveler
The dreamer of dreams
Where runs the horse
Chasing strange schemes?

I awoke hours later
Damp with night sweat
Wrapped in my sheets
Disturbed with this debt
Of both what I wanted
And pretended to need
Dreaming I may find it
On the back of my steed.

I lay on my side
In the dull dawn of morning
Studying the dream
That nightly is forming.
I have no bay, nor bridle
No saddle, nor spur.
But I do have a pain
That dreaming won’t cure.

I long for the darkness
The chill autumn air
I yearn for the quest
And the hope of a prayer.
I ache for the gallop
On the back of the bay
And that intangible need
That will not go away.

Perhaps tonight, in my sleep
I will dream again.
My bay, in her stall
Will know where and when
To run through the forest
And into that field
Where I will end my search
And my treasure revealed.

2 comments:

Tim O'Keefe said...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozeozxHg5MI

Hi James, loved your post. It's chilling, a little macabre. I loved it. Very dreamlike. Spooky. In a good way. Maybe I have turned you on to this guy. One of my favorite troubadours. John Gorka. Above is a URL of a spooky little tune of his called Raven in the storm. Some of your poetry reminds me of him.

I'm the latest apparition
Cutting slices in the night
I come through without permission
Moving in and out of human sight

I'm the tapping on your shoulder
I am the raven in the storm
I'll take shelter in your rafters
I'm the shiver when you're warm

I'm the gold in California
I am the well in Mexico
Like the vultures in the valley
I will wait for you to go

I'm the gypsy in your pocket
I am the horseman in your dreams
I'm the reason dogs are barking
I am the hand that stops the scream

I am the baby's cry that isn't
I am the distant relative
I'm the scratching in the ceiling
I am advice you shouldn't give

I'm the ghost of a travelling salesman
My foot will be there in your door
Though I can walk through walls and windows
I will knock just like before

I am the darkness in your daughter
I am the spot beneath the skin
I am the scarlet on the pavement
I am the broken heart within

I won't take a train to nowhere
I will not touch just anyone
Ask a stranger why I'm waiting
In the chamber of a gun

The Dashboard Poet said...

Tim...Comparing me to John Gorka is a humbling endorsement. I hope to, one day, write as masterfully as he. Thank you. Maybe if I keep trying.....