Dream Casting

shrimp boat sunsets HM

Dream Casting

In my dreams I toss fine lace,
Nylon netting webbed
Intricate watery webs like
Spiders wait to catch
Nourishment
But for the soul
And love of poetry
Like Lowcountry anglers cast
For bait, for shrimp
Far and wide
Fling it, with measured might
But I  throw out quiet
No net
To capture  poetic dreams
Under hushed breath they hover
Fear of being heard
The dream is the cover of dreams
Of poetry, a dream,
The poem the hidding place
It is safe here
There a shadow of  white peace
Quiet peace of page
Under and between, there amid
The lines of poetry

Into the fog of dreamy state
She walks into the fragrant breath
And stares
And listens
Aches with labor pains made bearable by the
Beauty of the baby
Dream
Speaking on her passion
Captured caught up in her net
Soft and comforted by the heart of one who knows
She knows and understands
And hears her reading in her lilting dancing cadence
Soft southern smooth as camelia petal
Pale,  strong cooing sounds she makes as she reads
Her own poetry
Draws with the heart
Bleeding  words
From her pen
They sing a gentle winsome ballad of brave
Beauty

Corners of her smile creep
As she speaks
And says she is a cheerleader
Of words
For poetry
She has a soul
That longs for a rallying cry
From someone from the South
Who knows the compelling
Cries inside the heart
To write the words
Not prose as much
As poetry
And knows what transpires on a page when
Memory unravels and reveals the past in bits
Of resurrected acts from stages of her life
Past, her past life
And knows how memory on the page looks different
But reminds creating archival treasures to tuck away
And keep sweet memory alive
And well
She knows

She leaks a bit of brave herself
No where to go it is too
Bold and wily
Untamed beast of brave

But she can tuck it in a poem
Like morse code, tells but hides
Well unless you know how to crack it
Translate the cryptic phrases from the
Insides of the writen lines

He says her office is in the attic
Humble place of dwelling
Tucked up high amid the books and archives
Available to talk of poetry

She, the Poet Laureate
He says she sits
Her office there keeping the pulse of poetry
For a nation
Available to talk of poetry

A dream is cast
Far and wide
She flings, she slings

In secret dreams of what she’d spill
What she’d reveal if she could
Climb the stairs and sit with her
Tete a tete toss her net
Amid the likes of
Natasha Trethewey

And dream a dream of poetry
And memory
Of where it goes
Where it’s stalled
How it dredges insides up
Like metal massive Gulf Shores
Oil riggers
Lowcountry Shrimp Boats
Plunderers amid the pluff

Of life  at the same Virginia
School at different times
In the valley
Of lines and rhyme
As the net untangles picks up love of words
And brings on shore the load of dreams

From an attic meeting with
The Poet Laureate
Soulful poet
Artist beauty
Word weaver, women
From the South

As I
Dream of casting
Nets for words
Of poetry

In the musty
Darkened attic of my heart

I brush off dreams of poetry
And tell no soul
They would not care
Nor keep it well

The dreams are cast in secret

The dreams are cast and

Rest for now with other poems
On quiet white
Pages of poetry

Harbinger of well healed memory

And dreams.

God's Grace shrimp boat

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The Night The Poems Came Out To Play

I told the poems to go away. To play outside and kill some time.
They shouted rhymes and phrases, pulling off the cloak of sleep
Hankering, hungry for attention in the mid-night hour.

poetry roxI told the poems come again, today is not the time.
If you must know I need sleep and you must get some too.
They huddled around the mind’s blank page and
Staged a sort of coup.

To keep me wide awake at night, playing poetry in my dreams.
The day is yours the night is mine
I tell them rather sweetly
Tomorrow we will write and play, you may not disturb my sleep.

It’s not that I am ungrateful
That you want to be with me at night.
Your lines and rhymes are truly keen
Just hold them over till the light of day. My pen, my mind, my soul needs sleep.

I told them that tomorrow would work well for me
Promised I’d be fresh and playful then,
That if they could just hold that thought
We’d have the light of day in which to play
With words and poetry.

But now it is the day all new, the sun is up and shining
And trouble looms and roars and howls
The cares and troubles crouch and wait
I wish my poetry’d come back
The ideas from the night.

Where laughter, rhyme and whimsy
Were there to calm the storm
And art was there to ease the pain, apply the balm
To all that thunder in my day.

So if you come back again tonight
I promise that I’ll play.
I’ll grab my pen and write you down
I’ll thank you for your playfulness and all you did
To ease my worried mind.

If I could write my nighttime cast of characters for my dreams
I’d invite, you every time
To be with me while I  sleep,
Resting peaceful, patient, by my side
A companion in the rocky night, a safe harbor in the thundrous storms of life,

Sweet Poetry,

Now good night.

Joining Heather for Just Write.6144223072_aba44084aa_m

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