Dream Life

                                        a secret? i miss you the most when it rains. it reminds me of the spotted umbrella i used to carry everywhere. how when it started to rain you would run up behind me like a bird seeking shelter. and how i would tip the umbrella your way- make room for you in more ways than one. a secret? i scarcely carry an umbrella these days. most of the time, i'm too tired to run for cover, too tired to keep missing you like i do. when it rains i always lose my balance- alwyas trip up somewhere down memory lane. and my heart ends up soaking like wet socks from a puddle i didn't see coming. a secret? i saw you coming. i just wanted another excuse to walk you home.

                                       Dreams are the only afterlife we know; the place where the children we were rock in the arms of the children we have become. They are as many as leaves in their migrations, as birds whose deaths we learn of by the single feather left behind: a clue, a particle of sleep caught in the eye. They are as irretrievable as sand when the sea creeps up its long knife glittering in its teeth to claim its patrimony. Sometimes my father in knickers and cap waits on that shore the dream of him a wound not even morning can heal. The dog's legs pump in his sleep; your closed eyelids flicker as the reel unwinds: watcher and watched, archer and bull's eye. Last night I dreamed a lover in my arms and woke innocent. The sky was starry to the very rind, his smile still burning there like the rail of comet that has just blazed by.

                                    I've come to the conclusion That the whole world is an illusion. What is the deal? The script written in our minds, All the wonders you will find, Perhaps none of it's real. The ground, the sky, the entire world, It all seems like a massive swirl. The trees, the sun, rivers, and grass, The glimmering stream, It was only a dream, Even that bird who you just saw pass. The people, bustling about the streets, Only in your dreams do you truly meet. Who is this person that you call friend? They too , do not exist, It does seem odd to think like this. I wonder if the imagination has an end. In front of our eyes is the landscape, But only in our heads does it actually take shape. The mind is strange The world, just a figment of our imagination, Simply a neurological creation, But nothing will ever change An illusion, the world may be, But that does not mean you have to s...

                                 You can write for hours on hours, Of all the things that you wish you could be, But the truth of the matter is simple, People are not poetry, And I know that you wish you weren't awkward, That sweet words could roll right off your tongue, But your time here's too short just to worry, How each single sentence is strung, It's okay to be rough round the edges, To be bruised up and broken and scarred, But it's not okay to let people tell you, That it's a reason to change who you are, You hair doesn't always sit neatly, The way a poem sits so neatly in lines, And sometimes you might feel like a word, That nobody has learnt to define, You might not be a star that lights darkness, Or a bird that can teach us to soar, But it's okay, because you are too complex, To be crammed into one metaphor, It's okay not to know what you're doing, Since your feelings don't have to all rhyme T...

                                                                       And the sun was setting, and a light wind blew,                                   Painting the skies in magenta and blue,                                       And a bird on a wire was singing,                                                 And no one notices,                                                   And no one ca...

                                 If you've listened close to silence, I'm sure that you have heard, The gentle constant ringing, In the space between two words, When you really pay attention, You find it's not just in your head, But instead is whispers of the words, The world has left unsaid, It's " I love you" left unspoken, And a mothers last goodbye, That she never had the chance to say, As she watched her daughter die, It's forgiveness never given, And a "sorry" left too late, That would have saved a best friends life, If they'd known it could not wait, It's a phrase that could have helped them, And it's secrets that could heal, It's words from those too scared to say, The truth of how they feel, But you have an advantage, For you're still alive to speak, Words that could help save a life, Or give strength to someone weak, So many you never leave unspoken, Words the whole world ought to hear, Before...