Tag Archives: Dreams

Poem: Dreams of Horses

They came again
last night
in the darkness
hooves rumbling
across my roof

They come whenever
it rains
after midnight
thunder trembling
over my roof

They stand snorting
in the shadows
coats gleaming
under my roof

They are waiting
me to join them
soul freeing
leaving my roof

They will take me
above the clouds
star dancing
one with the herd

Ending my poems
silence my heart
these wounds I bear.

About these ads

Boldog új évet kívánunk!

pigs for luck

I wish you all a Happy New Year!

Are you making any resolutions?

I usually don’t but who knows what tomorrow might inspire me to do!

Post Ten: Finding an Edge

This nightmare is getting old fast. I fall asleep in my comfortable cage, and back I am here. And here is the same old harvesting fingers from the dead. This is stupid. Dream are like that aren’t they? Nonsensical amalgamations of the bits and pieces of our brains. Like the Lieutenant. He is one odd duck, I’m not sure where my brain found him.

There he is now. Army Engineer. In charge of the operations in this sector. He is thin, drawn tight like piano wire. His voice out of tone and grating on my nerves. I guess my brain finally invented a name for him, or I finally noticed his  name badge: Lieutenant A. Sapper.

Is that corny or what? My brain apparently likes to state the obvious.

Apparently I have been staring much too long so now he is walking over to me, his face a scowl. I grab  a bucket and spin into the processing tent. I look back and see Sapper has been stopped by another soldier.

I hate this dream. Am I making myself clear. My brain doesn’t change the channels, or wake me up. I’m stuck in this for now, might as well enjoy the one benefit of this dream world. Here I am not alone. Here I can have conversations. Yeah I know – speaking with a figment of my own imagination isn’t deep conversation, but at least it is conversation.

I take my bucket of bagged fingers to the digital processing center. I suddenly realize that is kinda funny. I don’t know how many times I have dreamed this – but really my unconscious must enjoy puns. I look at the operator of the digital processing station.

“Hey ever find it funny you are digitally processing digits?”

He stops what he is doing and glares at me. “None of this is funny. You need help. Get the fuck out of here.”

I stare at him in surprise. He stands up and growls, “Now!”

I turn tail and walk quickly away from the tent. Eyes straight ahead. Enough of this stupid dream. If I can’t stop having it, I’m just walking out of it. Past the workers snapping fingers. Past the heavy equipment pushing debris and bodies into the lower floors of the collapsed building.

Dust  bellows behind me as I walk. The wind swirls dust into my face. It tastes of bitterness and ashes. I pull the bandanna from around my neck and cover my mouth and nose. I will not be stopped.

I cross the fields and head up some hills. A few hundred yards ahead I can see troop transports, and men with guns. Some kind of watch outpost. This dream is not making things easy for me. There doesn’t appear to be anyway around them, so I will have to go through them.

I walk on, head down. The expected command of “Halt!” rings out. This is a dream so no way am I letting that work. Come on unconscious you gotta do better than that.

I pick up my pace, I am almost on them. Hah so much for this dream keeping me here. Then I hear the whine of energy, and feel the double bee-sting through my clothes. I smell ozone and fall. Well played unconscious, well played indeed!


I wake up in a cold sweat in my futon. Apparently my dream isn’t quite finished with me, and I am still here in  my comfortable prison apartment.

I yell at the walls, “The least you bastards could do is get me so scotch!”





Post Nine: Man in a Box

Why am I here? In another reality that would be the the ultimate philosophical question. I never could answer that question – even when my waking world wasn’t limited to these four rooms. Only in my dreams do I escape this box that I have been placed inside. And those dreams aren’t much of an escape.

I had hoped that this terminal would let me find others also trapped in other boxes. It is strange in some ways. I have everything I could ever want to live here inside this prison. The furnishings are simple and solid. Gentle restful colours of chocolate, mint, pale orange, and soft blues. I feel relaxed, almost serene here.

There is food, and clothing. Although why I bother dressing when I am here alone seems strange.

I don’t know how long I have been here now. The futon is now shaped to my form – a nest for my tired body. The blue and orange blankets soft on my naked skin, holding my heat gently around me when I drift off to sleep. If only my sleep was as gentle.

I do welcome the rest and first wisps of darkness as it takes me into forgetting – and then I dread the dreams that spill into my mind. Now is not the time for speaking of dreams. I will not speak of them – have I told you about these rooms? They are a pattern, within a pattern.

The floors throughout are chocolate brown hardwood squares.  Not solid brown but an interweaving of soft organic browns showing the wood grain in pleasing waves.

The squares are 1-foot by 1-foot. I know because my hand is exactly 4-inches wide, so 3-hands to a foot. Why I use that archaic system of measurement is beyond me. The top-joint of my thumb is exactly 1-inch if  you really care to know.

My bedroom then is exactly 13-feet by 13-feet.  The sitting room is 21-feet by 21-feet. The kitchen 8 by 8. The bathroom off the bedroom is 5 by 8. A pattern of rooms that nestle inside a 21 by 34 rectangle. Do the math – draw the pattern and you will see it like I do: squares nestled inside rectangles.

Do you see it the pattern: 5, 8, 13, 21?

If I count the bathtub in the back of the bathroom – then the bathroom is 5 by 5 with a 3 by 5 tub at the back wall. The tub has a rubber mat that is visually makes the tub 3 by 3 and 2 by 3.

Do you see it now? 21, 13, 8, 5, 3, 2… the Fibonacci sequence. The floor squares the 1 and 1 to seed it all.

Is someone trying to tell me something? Is there a reason the rooms are a mathematical pattern. The ratio of the lengths to the widths is close to the Golden Ratio.

And it isn’t just the rooms – the furniture is also made to the same pattern and same ratios. It is maddeningly elegantly pleasing to the eyes as each rectangle balances, 1 by 2 and 2 by 3 and 3 by 5 and so on marching; marching into infinity like so many good ants working towards perfection as the  ratios touch the  infinite.

Is that where we would find god? At the end of that ratio? I don’t even believe in god – yet this pattern makes me want to believe in some great and divine  designer measuring and balancing and creating.

Why do you not speak with me? You read these words and give nothing back to me. I know you are there. I can see when you touch these words, and when these words have touched you.

Touching. Oh my lord what I would give to be touched, held tight against another living body. To feel, hear, her beating heart and not just my own. I wouldn’t spend my timing measuring rooms, and pondering golden ratios. Show me your golden mean, and I’ll show you mine.

Am I just a man in a box? Is this maybe a pine box and I just think it is something more and bigger? Am I buried and forgotten? No that cannot be – for my heart is still beating.

Is your heart still beating?

Post Eight: Who?

I don’t want to talk about the dreams, and the awful dreamland of my sleep. I am not sure how my brain has created such horror and madness. I was back in fields harvesting fingers, when one of the hands grabbed me.

It seems not all of the dead are dead. This is I think why the the dream army and the dream bulldozer is pushing them into the big hole in the ground and burying them. I am not certain of that – but when I told the Army Engineer Lieutenant he just shook his head like I was crazy. Then grabbed my arms hard, pulling me into his twisted face.

“Pull yourself together Private! This is terrible work we do – you don’t need to make it worse with half-baked delusions. The dead are dead. They cannot move, they cannot hold, they cannot feel. Do you understand me?”

His breath smells of death and decay. I rub my tongue over my teeth and feel the build-up on my own teeth. The dust and lack of a tooth brush creating a festering soup in my mouth.

I shake my head, “Yes Sir. I understand Sir!”

But I said I wouldn’t speak of that. It haunts me know those dreams, that madness. Are they even my dreams? Is it like the monitor and the keyboard in my bedroom? Perhaps these are broadcasts? Projections? Am I picking up signals from elsewhere?

I have searched my memory trying to understand where this dream-world could be coming from? A book I read? A vid I watched? It is beyond the memory of my own life in a sub-urban home, in a small town, with quiet green streets and children playing. My memory is filled with ordinary days in an ordinary place lived in an ordinary way.

How can I dream so vividly of such horror?


I have made pizza to distract me. I am surprised that all the basic ingredients are here. Cheese, tomato sauce and mozzarella. There is no way to make a pizza dough but there is some flat bread that works very well. It is in the toaster oven so the cheese melts. I am watching it sag, and run and bubble. The smell of hot cheese makes my mouth fill with saliva.

When it seems just right I pull out the pizza, enjoying the burning feeling running through my fingers driving out the cold of the dream world. I want to bite into the fresh pizza right away, but visions of the gooey cheese sticking hot against the roof of my mouth stops me.

I wander back to the sitting room while the cheese cools. The books beg me to touch them. I let my hand slide over the spines again. The glossy paper backing slides smooth and cool beneath my fingertips. It has been years since I have touched a book, held it in my hand. Felt the weight of words as I held and read them.

Books in my reality had become electronic screens. Back-lit comfortable little plastic rectangles that weighed so little you forgot you were holding them. Feeling more like a single page instead of an entire book. The device could bend, and flicking the top right corner would flip the book to  a random page. My favorite part of reading was simply randomly opening a book I had already read and dropping back inside the story. As if I had never left…

The smell of the pizza pulls me back to the kitchen where I feast on the warm glop of cheese and sauce as I wait for the kettle to boil. Time for some tea, something dark and floral to dance on my tongue. Like a woman`s kiss hot and alive.

And with that I feel terribly alone. How long has it been since anyone has touched me? My skin aches for the feel of  other skin, warm and alive. Warm and breathing.