Wires from my stereo
Taped onto my temples
Somehow would carry me towards
Friends from another realm, or
Black holes, Pulsars, Quasars or
Cepheid variables- I saw the world in my dreams from
A telescope on my balcony
I was only fourteen.
I pulled a map from underneath my bed every night
This world in the middle of nowhere
Is where I lived?
Bad grades, hated school,
No real people, or not real to me:
One, two, three, four
I couldn't stand it anymore,
Unless it was alone with Kyt
Walking home from school,
It wasn't really the real school I was walking home from
But from this other place.
Daddy got angry last night, and left,
I didn't care and
I didn't leave my room,
Mother ran away when she and daddy fought about me.
I threatened suicide,
High in the sky
I just don't care anymore,
So they called some strange doctor
They came to take me away.
I hid in the churchyard,
Red strobe lights flashing
"Give yourself up," I heard them say
I am surrounded
Trapped in my own thoughts,
Surrounded by police cars, mother and daddy and my own friends from outer space-
Are they the only saviors of my tainted soul?
For every word I say
There is no tomorrow
For every lost tomorrow
There is a forgotten yesterday
For every forgotten yesterday
There is one more tear I cry
For every tear that falls to the ground
I remember a forgotten love
A love that was supposed to have been forgotten
So this is the last line of the lost poem
that I have
A few straggly leaves on the trees disappeared overnight.
Frost now sparkles on the grass. A lone crow circles
overhead, a black swatch floating frigid as the air.
The season has turned. Virtual death is on the
heart once more. She feels a vise though she can't pinpoint where
in her scarred being. A weak sun has perched on the glass panes. She knows
the cold would wrap her every step.
Struggling on, halved and quartered, she is certain
this season would not be any different. Days would
drag on in routine exactness.
She glances at the clock and whirls around to the
shower in obedience to the tick of the minute hand.
Perfect attendance, perfect recording in the books,
perfect office manners-such rigidity to rules
keeps her the perfect prisoner, her own convict.
Sadness is her crime. She wallows in it. Her lake has
turned into a quicksand. She does not hope for someone
to pull her off the mire. She hopes instead that
like the leaves last night she would just disappear.
In my mother's orchid garden there grew a small weed
With long scraggly leaves that drooped down in the sunlight,
And in the rain, its stem was bent over-
Hunched under the heaviness of the water
That poured from the sky;
This weed was always hungry for the food it never received.
My mother made sure her orchids were always in full bloom
By watering them with fresh water and feeding them plant food,
But she made sure this is weed was never fed, never watered,
Never handled with care.
She fondled each frond and each petal on these purple orchid flowers
With her utmost love and attention.
Mother constantly complained to my father about this weed that
Was a bane to her orchid garden, and
Would he please uproot it tomorrow once again,
And he nodded.
My father uprooted this weed once again, but
Of course over a period of only a few days it sprouted up again.
"I HATE this weed," mother would exclaim.
"It is an eyesore, and will not leave my garden forever."
In my mother's home there grew a small child
With long scraggly legs, and a head that hung.
When she went to school,
She was deemed as "different"
She brought home bad grades,
And hungered for affection which she never received.
Mother turned on that charm for her friends and their families, but
To her own child she only treated with disrespect.
This child never could hold down a job or accomplish anything
For her mother to be proud of.
She complained in vain to many about her child,
And would someone please remove her from her home?
One day this child left and never returned.
Mother began to think about her orchid garden and the weed that had grown there.
If only I had been around to see that weed grow taller, she thought,
It might have grown to become a beautiful tree- and
After mother died, her spirit lived on,
And found itself thinking,
If only I had lived long enough to see my child grow up,
I would have seen the beautiful woman that she had turned into...
In the dark late night she appeared
A golden tree dancing
Before a sky of azure blue
Somewhat purple hued.
Her branches grew haphazardly
Playing hide and seek with cirrus clouds.
Inside she prayed for rain to shine upon her.
Through a kaleidoscope she could read the songs
Of her wounded soul,
Although the approaching dawn was blackening.
Electric blue were the eyes of midnight.
Mistrustful, they hid behind a wall of deceit
This golden tree danced in the early morning breeze,
As she shivered to ward away the fallen snow.
She wept for all of the hurt through which she lived.
When she read the world through that kaleidoscope,
There were none but scattered shards of broken glass
"Dance and dance"
All tell this golden tree,
For she shall grow when the sun rains upon her gilded heart.
She is loved, in all her lustrous glory.
Red birds of ardor,
Robins with their breasts of copper,
And the new moss that grows upon her fragile trunk
Shall arrive within a vessel christened "springtime."
She reaches out with agile limbs
To trees with silver branches
Swaying to and fro,
Dropping leaves with veins of woven silk,
That wilt with each and every touch.
In the dim moonlight when the air is bittersweet
There appears a golden tree that dances,
Far from where the rippling creek is crawling over
Gemstones dampened by the rain.
Against a sky of azure blue
Touched with purple hues
A lithe, dancing golden tree can be found
In any place, time or realm,
She could be you or me-
Perhaps anyone's wounded soul,
Where its world seen through a kaleidoscope
Is none but a shattered dream...
I am the sleep dancer.
I arabesque upon a post of a wooden fence,
Following the sheep that I count.
As I drift into my dream world,
A graffiti pattern inscribed across the sky entices me.
I chase the elusive moon, oh so prominent, risen, past midnight, in mid- July.
Enya's song haunts me with her spirit song's intonations, as it
Lulls me to sleep.
I arise at dawn weeping in celebration of who I am and what I live for:
I am the sleep dancer.
My dancing slippers are the tools of my desire.
My internal anguish is felt with each step I take.
My lithe body levitates, as
Music envelops my room.
I am in constant motion-
I am the sleep dancer,
The ballerina in my dreams.
Fading into the night,
I dance the Pavanne, weeping for the death of
A princess I never knew.
As I hide behind the moon, I pirouette on that wooden fence post,
Still counting the sheep that I follow, as they leap before me.
I dance and dance throughout the night, alone in my dreams.
I am the sleep dancer-in my sleep,
Make things happen
Get your feet a-tappin'!
Start to tell jokes
Meet interesting new folks
Join a gym and
Get fit and trim!
DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT
Fall in love
When needed, learn to push and shove
Get into a heated debate
Stop doing things that you hate
Start anew with a spotless clean slate
Stop always coming so goddamn late
Learn how to box
Go a day without wearing socks
Pick a fight with someone
Of greater height and might
(Knowing that you may easily lose that fight)
Enrich your life
By learning to play a military drum and fife
Answer philosophical questions with "Well, That's Life!"
Get yourself a pet
Learn how to fly a jet
Be more aggressive,
Be a little less possessive,
Tsk tsk - don't be afraid to take a risk...
Shivering in a draft,
Her hair blown about,
None but a fine wisp, tucked behind
All that can be heard is
The humming of the wind outside,
Spinning as the moon,
White, with the stars above.
She sits alone, affront
A round wooden table,
Somewhere and for some reason,
Inexplicable, she has
Shut the world out, and
Hangs her head,
Sideways, as she looks out
From the corner of her eyes.
She cannot see the silence,
Outside the window, as some vehicle
Has driven by, or
Perhaps the pounding of footsteps upon the
The rising of the crescent moon,
And the serenity of the night
The wind hums outside,
Tossed about in a breeze,
Wafting through the window
Blows her hair about,
Though does not dry her tears
Lost and far removed, she sails
A ship, capsized,
Not to be rescued, and drowning as
In her cupped hands she
Holds artificial flowers, with
Leaves adorning, that are
Quivering within the breeze...