Dreams
Thoughts and impressions
molded by the mind unaware
awaken in the world of dreams.
Remembrance safely blocked,
pursuits of fancy
lead the sleeper blissfully astray.
Still, mysteries, by their very nature
years to be resolved,
and realities may surface
and reveal surprise discoveries.
New awareness may break through --
a still, small voice
above the clamor of imagined wishes.
And in those waking seconds,
as dream-cast shadows slip away
to dwell within the secret confines
governed not by consciousness,
I grasp a brief illumination --
certain that deception lies alone
within myself.
Our Future
We are forever bought by the materialistic wizards
who sell our souls from stereo carton tops,
automobile roof tops, holding Kleno super mops
over Big Mac boxtops
and dozens of non-resturnable, non-reusable aluminum pop tops.
They sell us on soaps and creams, conditioners to wave an ocean.
(Hide those lines and wrinkes and dry, flakey skin.)
The incredible sound; the whitest, cleanest wash;
the perfect design, the ultimate in fuel economy;
(Fight those oil barons).
The engines hum, the wheels turn
(twenty one miles to the gallon),
The dollar rules, the corporations rule,
the government rules, and we give up
and allow ourselves to float into a
contrived, artificial, meaningless lifestyle.
Life is what you make it. Pills and Pop. Pop. Pop
while faster and faster we ride
into the over-processed, plasticized,
chemical additived, air polluted, water polluted,
wild animal depleted world,
poisoning ourselves into oblivion
or perhaps blasting ourselves.
What is the future for the inhabitants of the planet Earth?
See reality through the looking glass
for therein lies truth.
Thoughts on an Earthquake
What time reduces to the moment --
the precise moment that only is now --
this minute --
is so full of choice
that I marvel at the possibilities.
But what choice enters my brain
when it’s jolted awake
at half past four in the morning?
One thinks more in terms of survival, necessity.
Instincts take over.
Where will I be safe?
Will I be all right?
How long will the shaking last?
When can I call a friend?
And why now, of all times,
can't I find my dark blue slippers?
Those who lost their lives that night
expected to see tomorrow just as I.
And I think how swiftly we forget
all the little, simple joys --
a sunny day,
a sunny smile and laughter,
helpful hands,
the gifts we're given.
So easily we forget to appreciate them.
The moments slip and pass away
without a thought --
without a thank you.
So while I have the chance I’ll say thank you.
I still have choices to make.
I still have time.
Past Life
Then, is this life a dream?
Will veils ‘tis said protect our mortal eye
be drawn aside the moment Death ordains eternal sleep?
What future signs our souls’ release --
the bliss of sweet surrender,
or timeless, black unknowingness?
Heaven, Hell are known already here.
Are they but portents of the Great Reality?
Will war and hatred, hunger, famine, pain, disease,
the suffering of humanity,
depravity and cursed pride,
be, in the hidden afterworld,
both magnified and multiplied?
Are sunrays drifting through the trees,
the scents of blossoms, silent snow,
a baby’s laugh, a friend’s hello,
thundering waves upon the beach,
the glowing moon and distant stars,
all lesser gifts than heaven's?
The explanations stay elusive ghosts.
They drift between the pillars of our consciousness—
the facts we know for certain past a shadow of a doubt.
So, what is real and what is known?
Is life a set of unfair odds,
the darkened glass as yet unshattered?
Are things seldom what they seem?
Or shall we slip this earthly sphere
with nevermore the chance to dream?
Test Drive
In terms of transportation it's the car we like the best,
in spite of hazards we encounter venturing on a quest
to travel forth from north to south or even east to west.
I say, some drivers leave me unimpressed.
Without a knowledge of the road, how did they pass the test?
When common sense is lacking, CHP's don't make arrests.
Some minds aren't able to ingest a courtesy they might posses.
"You could just watch me turn the wheel." A signal's such an easy guess.
When arrows change from red to green is not the perfect chance to rest.
So get into the intersection, and traffic won't as apt compress.
And think of those behind, ahead, and vehicles abreast
before you find my indignation something to contest.
At times the basic laws of physics aren't the quickest thoughts expressed.
Perhaps the rules were long ago repressed by habits, I suggest.
When seven feet has been assessed for space, am I distressed,
as braking power hasn't been addressed at sixty, even less.
Another grievance I confess will make my stomach effervesce
is Dawdler Dan, a driver thinking he's the only guest.
When forced to board the freeway at a crawl, I do protest.
Our senior folks without much zest should sometimes sadly be suppressed,
and older men with hats and vests. It somehow matters how they're dressed.
And eager teens aren't self-possessed if they take chances like they're blessed
because their acts of lunacy leave people dead or convalesced.
And may I get it off my chest--one other thing that I detest:
a drinking driver thinking his responses aren't repressed.
Although his auto's repossessed, his victim's left a sorry mess.
But if my irritation makes me vocally molest
those errant users of the road considered second best,
may stress not make me too obsessed, may drivers heed my fair requests,
and inwardly digest them and invest them with some thought beyond a jest.
No longer will I feel as pressed their quick defenses to protest
with zealous ravings, maledictions, conscientiousness.
Instead, I'll lean back on my headrest, smiling at the stewardess.
Poets and Actors
Poets stand by a side door
waiting for me to discover them,
whispering a soliloquy beyond my ability to hear,
and with gentle eyes unveiling my soul.
Long after they have gone away,
I realize I should have paid attention
and tried once more to comprehend the magic.
Actors enter center stage -- fanfare and flourish,
bursting with gestures, bold in the spotlight,
monologues straining with promise.
How oft' I find I played the fool
when day lights a set I'd not designed
and I realize I've missed my cue to exit.
Still, for a time, our lines are touched by magic.