March 26, 2017

Lucid Dreaming


Empty is only the warp of our tapestry,
part of our pattern, is only the interval,
only the silence that shapes our pale music
remembered when drifting from dreams
in that sleep-darkened tent
where our souls slake their thirst
for the new, for the novel,
and the stone still rolls
down the thousand-year cliff,
to the doorsteps of dream, the red heat of the plains,
the search for safe shelter, the consuming of carrion,
the spotted flicker in the grass that cannot be the wind,
the million year from the hand ax to atom.

Yet if dreams hold an answer, as flowers hold fog,
they must answer with breath, and, if they answer,
must move among stars, and have their own songs
of the body awake, and must sing them.

The eye's iris closing in the brightening light...
The body, vanishing in the brightening light...
The mind --
an old man running along a beach of blue sand
               with a young girl riding high on his shoulders --
                    dissolves into a memory.
     The lips --
          pale and smiling, evaporating
               in the hot sand winds --
                    dissolve into a line,
     And the eyes --
          gazing into the spaces between stars --
               grow dim and close on the dark.
     Grow dim and sleep.
     Grow dim and sleep
     long through the dark beyond death;
a darkness held cupped the palms of the far stars
where fresh sunlight falls like feathers through bones,
where lost constellations have no shapes and no names,
but are parts of our pattern, forgotten mandalas,
while on Earth we breathe between the sun and the iris,
drowned deep in that sleep that only the rain
plashing on new leaves will lend us.


Stars fading.
     Sun rising.
          Windy city.

               Morning occurs forever
               as love occurs forever. We....
We are all awake now.
     Sunlight falls
          on all our faces gathered
               on a shore with no name,
                    blue sands by the crimson sea.
Stars above us dwindle
     towards the outside edge of light,
          and whirling shake their hair,
(Ah, jet ebony!)
               in a free wind blowing
East and west,
     wet and warm,
           now and forever,
               hello, good-bye, I'll always love you.

We hold each other here in the place of solitude and stillest night.
There are others with us. We have met them in another time.

     for the moon is rising.
     for the sun delays.


Posted by gerardvanderleun at March 26, 2017 12:02 AM
Bookmark and Share



"It is impossible to speak in such a way that you cannot be misunderstood." -- Karl Popper N.B.: Comments are moderated and may not appear immediately. Comments that exceed the obscenity or stupidity limits will be either edited or expunged.

I'm not religious. I believe when we die the essence of who we are, the electrons in our brains, are released to the larger field, to meld back into that from which we were cultivated.

I am made from the dust of the stars and oceans flow through my veins.

Posted by: ghostsniper at March 26, 2017 4:41 AM

I tend to agree with Prof. Richard Feynman: We're thinking atoms that formed into an interesting arrangement.

But then, who really knows ...?

Posted by: Smokey at March 26, 2017 10:16 AM

Ghost, you are religious, just not conventionally so. All faith in things unknown is the essence of religion. Faith that there is no God is as much a religion as faith in Intelligent Design or God as a man with a white beard that resides in the Heavens. If it works to get you through the day and night, that's what's important.

Posted by: Jimmy J. at March 26, 2017 1:16 PM

The enigmatic part is, what restrains the electrons inside the brain? Or is it an ASSumption on my part that they are. Take dreaming vs reality. Our reality is framed by our upbringing and experiences. Dreaming however seems to be boundless. I fly regularly in my dreams but obviously not in reality. Is dreaming a brief portal into the hereafter?

Posted by: ghostsniper at March 26, 2017 3:09 PM