Did you sleep well last night? That’s too bad, because I want you to write a nightmare poem today. You could write an actual nightmare, or present a nightmare scenario related to your theme.
Here’s my attempt for the day:
“The closet”
He wakes up screaming, “Mommy, mommy!
They’re coming for me again. The aliens
were scratching at my closet door. I could
hear them. I could hear them scratching.”
Well, darn it, this is the dream-like poem that should have been in Day 9, and the poem in Day 9 "Night Terrors" really belongs here in the nightmare prompt.
When Dandelions Dream
Clouds whisper
across a lemon sky,
twelve dandelions dream
a takeover of green.
Wet-dog rain
sprinkles them into a
wakeful baker’s dozen.
Now thirteen in number,
they sniggle with glee.
Emerald grassland
pays no notice
to the yellow fuzzy
threat to its smug domain
of green turning citrus
like the once azure sky.
XVI. Beyond Sympathy
“I can’t believe you have to go through all of this
On top of everything else you’ve endured.”
Sympathetically, as only a best friend can,
She conjured up words for the nightmarish
Situation for which none existed.
That everything else to which she’d alluded?
The recipe called for:
One grandmother,
Two aunts,
A beloved canine
And one good friend
Stripped of life, one by one,
Over the span of a single year,
But not before I’d watched each’s soul
Slip like satin camisole straps
Over earth’s shoulder.
Reduced to acceptance,
“It’s just the kind of thing
I wake up every morning expecting
To happen.”
day #15 nightmare
What if children could fly
up to the age of four?
What if I neglected to feed
the neighbor’s waiting dog?
What if, in the act of walking,
my legs fell off?
What if the world turned to water
and I forgot how to swim?
What if every vile thought of mine
was a continual feed movie
playing on my back?
Worst possible nightmare thought–
What if I unlearned how to read?
Hair brown, teeth white, skin… normal.
Laugh hollow, wit dulled, puns dead.
Normal.
This isn’t the home that I bought.
This isn’t the house that I found
online, that I walked through and
called my dream home. This house
is too small. and is falling apart.
There are no trees, no garage, and
half of the front porch is missing.
What happened to my home?
Meesh, loved your vivid sensory details in the elevator!
Alfred Sisley, French (1839-99)
Flood at Moret, 1879
After the Storm
High waters,
but no sad or angry sky,
only blue liquid,
reflecting the pure flood of
cloud-flecked blue,
backdrop to the bare birch trees,
slender and white-barked,
four sentinels.
Then the central focus emerges:
a cluster of red-roofed houses,
almost overtaken by the water.
Peaceful and serene to the onlooker.
A nightmare to the homeowner,
who wonders whether the waters will
recede or rise,
or whether they have already overtaken
a prized possession or the wood floors
so painstakingly laid.
The beauty of the day only
delivers a cruel slap,
waking reality,
to the sufferers
after the storm.
My nightmare
I wanted to be the one you talked too when things went wrong.
I wanted to be the one who helped you mow your lawn.
I wanted to go with you to see new sights and climbed new
heights.
To be there when your daughter played ball, I wanted to be there for it all.
But you just wanted sex and now you have moved on to the next.
My nightmare
I wanted to be the one you talked too when things went wrong.
I wanted to be the one who helped you mow your lawn.
I wanted to go with you to see new sights and climbed new
heights.
To be there when your daughter played ball, I wanted to be there for it all.
But you just wanted sex and now you have moved on to the next.
Satia, thank you for your kind words.
The Nightmare
I was walking alone before my
Abduction
Three people held me down in
Humiliation
They had their eyes on me for the
Sex Trade
And soon I was sold into
Slavery
I watched the dark girl treated with
Intolerance
We were forced to watch her
Execution
I was baffled by the
Discrimination
Refusing I endured their
Torture
and as I faced certain
Mutilation
I decided that I should wake up.
Vanessa O’Dwyer
dragging the darkness
attached beneath
to the under soles
of her feet
shadows refuse
dismissal, even
now in this dream
frozen scream
she wants them gone
this gray hanging one
in any bit of light
fattened, cornered
by the haunt of shadow
until she begins
with her giant eraser
to rubs away what’s bright
a postcard to los angeles
endless scarves
and bubbly
hair
tea, cozy
girl with the yarn-
wrapped hug
clever drawings,
a comedy
eye
once laughed
with guts
and cried
with a smile
Aftermath of a Fight
After every major fight we have,
I have nightmares all night long.
He is stalking a little girl, she runs,
she hides she slips over the edge
of the roof, hanging by her fingertips,
he walks to the edge, steps hard on her
small fingers, she drops to the ground,
runs for her life, not quite fast enough
he leaves tracks filled with blood.
I wake, jaw clenched, heart racing, you
snore peacefully by my side, I am safe.
What am I so afraid of, loss, change,
abandonment, my own anger, the fear
of having said something irrevocable,
who really is the monster here, you or I?
Kate Berne Miller
The wind is blowing. It scours
The land, and cleans the air
Of what pollution the quiet hours
Of last night gathered. From its lair
In the mountains, it roars
Down onto our plains
A constant. Doors
Cannot stop it nor windowpanes
From sifting dust inside
To grit our food, to turn gray
All surfaces. It seems nothing can hide
From another windy day.
Outside our leaning walk
Betrays our way; where lives the keening hawk.
Thank you PSC, your husband sounds like a real credit to the profession. I am sorry to hear that you left, but, happy that you have found success in your field.
Rod.
Nightmares
Hue and cry at 2 a.m.
Shrieks, sobs and sniffles
Product of monsters,
Aliens, goblins and ghosts
Cradling and cajoling, I
Thank my lucky stars
Consoled by the thought that
For now, at least –
Evil beasts may still be banished by
Cuddles and kisses
Not time yet to concede
Nor need to acknowledge
The Real Nightmares
Not so easily defeated –
Abuse, Addiction, Alzheimer’s
Cancer, Crime, Hunger, Hatred,
Prejudice, Pedophilia,
Warfare –
Villains so savage and destructive
I long for my own mother’s embrace
Rod — to answer your questions:
I taught 4th and 5th grades, but left for a more lucrative career working with computers. My husband (who’s planning to retire in June) has taught high school math for almost 37 years. It is a very difficult and exhausting job — often frustrating and thankless, but also very satisfying and fulfilling. (Sounds a lot like parenthood, huh?)
Middle school can be a touch age, with kids stuck in the middle — not yet grown up, but no longer little either. You have my very best wishes!
PSC
Day 15:
Leaves blow in the dark October
wind. Seedheads sprinkling their
hardened kernels
onto my face.
I try to rise from the tangled
earth that grasps my legs
with its vines of wrath. Falling
back into the ground.
Crying for aid in the twilight hours
no one hears but skeleton
stalks of herbs gone by
uprooted by panicked hands trying to
grip something unshakable.
Swallowed into the worms and
bugs, crawling across my face
my arms, my neck. Deeper under the earth
until I wake in bed and
brush the sweat from my dream.
Nightmare 1999
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
When day 3 came and went still without word,
she knew the inevitable day had finally come…
the Cathy Lynn and her crew had been lost at sea.
The sheer thought of it gave her instant ulcers
and a dread she couldn’t shake all afternoon.
As she stared overtop the kitchen sink window
willing with all her might for his red 4×4 to
suddenly come inching up the driveway, ZZ Top
rattling the custom moon roof and side mirrors,
the sudden reflection in the corner glass of her
cream wedding-dress, the curve of the wire
hanger pushed in the crevice between the wall
and the top of the door trim, began to sink in.
She was about to find out what widowhood would
have felt like, had he not missed their wedding.
© 2008 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Thankyou PSC, I have had the naked dream as well, where I somehow went to work forgetting to get dressed. So many nightmares associated with this profession. What grade did you teach? What grade does your husband teach? I teach 7th for the last 18 years.
Rod
Robert, I will ‘second’ Peggy’s question above….
You’ve done two poetry months with poetry prompts.
As she asked….how about 2009, a YEAR of poetry prompts?
Tyger – Thanks so much,scary thought ain’t it?
Iain
Wow! Some very real and frightening nightmares here. Those that really struck me so far:
Nancy P – nice job! The worst of reality & current events playing in an endless loop.
Peggy – well done! Another view of reality as nightmare.
Sara M – frightening!
Lori – I’ve had the same dream. Not a patient — usually a pet or an infant — but just as disturbing.
Rodney – very good, and true. Having taught for a short time many years ago, a similar dream will still visit me once in a while. (My husband — also a teacher — dreams of teaching naked, or sometimes in his underwear!)
Victoria – very graphic and realistic. So very sorry.
Linda – re your numbers poem: Interesting concept. I like it! I think you are referring to the square root of negative 1.
Thanks everyone, for another good read! I’ll be back to post soon. (Still hoping for some helpful feedback on my poem from the Writers’ Digest Poetry forum — before I commit to entering it here!
)
Lain, your "No cats, No poetry" made me shiver. What would a world be without both?
Great poem!
oops again! In the last poem above (Day13) it should say
the infinite number of x’s and y’s (not infite!)
Oops! DIVIDED should begin
Last night I dreamt of a long, wooden crate
with a red heart painted on top and locked inside it
was me, with both feet, hands, and head protruding
as an evil magician sawed through the middle.
Please disregard any other typing errors!!!!
Linda
Okay,everyone. I know this fails in comparison to yours but here it is anyway.
Day 15 prompt: nightmare poem
DIVIDED
Last night I dreamt of a long, wooden crate
with a red heart painting on top
and locked inside it was me
with both feet, hands, and head protuding
as an evil magician sawed through the middle.
A blood-curling scream escaped from me
as he separated the halves,
pushing them far, far apart
like lands whose borders are never to meet.
A vast ocean oozed from the pieces,
not blood or extremeties but my soul
sliding away and spilling onto the floor
for the astonished audience to see—
memories of fragrant racemes of white
bell-shaped flowers on the way to Nana’s door,
the collective voice of my first grade class
proudly belting out the Star-Spangled Banner,
the delectable taste of Thanksgiving dinner,
the image of deciduous trees decorated
in nature’s colorful Autumn confetti,
the wondrous display of Fourth of July fireworks
illuminating the evening sky,
the faces of family smiling at me
and the swaying motion of friends, arms intertwined,
singing merrily, moving to the beat of the Volksmusik,
the clinking sound of glasses raised as we toast
to what we call Gemütlichkeit,
the aromatic smell of warm, cinnamon-scented
Apfelstrudel topped with vanilla ice cream,
the panoramic view of white, snow-capped pine trees
row upon row in the Alps at winter time,
the smokey breathe of my daughter as she sings
Weihnachtslieder with the choir outside our church–
and the fearful faces of the audience as they perceive
my predicament thrusts me back to consciousness
like a magic wand instantly reversing the nightmare,
the reality of being in my safe, warm bed,
body fully intact, my two worlds surviving as
internal neighbors as I gently roll over,
pulling the covers tight around me,
mindful of the irony of nighttime illusions
reflecting reality before drifting off to dreamland
once again.
And here is Day 13 prompt: A numerical poem dealing with theme
I am not sure of the title. Two ideas are The Positive Square Root of One (which is the imaginary unit, I believe, iEither The Pos) or simply My Better Half. Any help would be appreciated.
He had an inclination for mathematics,
an aptitude for complex numbers,
an absolte penchant for problems of abstract algebra.
Geometry and trigonometry were mere child’s play.
A true intellectual searching for fundamental truths
and principles, approaching each task logically,
never to be duped by the trick question
until
a calculating figure put him under a spell,
her enticing angles and simple solutions
pulling him in, reducing higher math to the form
of two minus one plus one equals two
and I didn’t figure into the end sum.
Was I the complex number that finally stumped him,
no standard formula for determining my personal equation,
the infite amount of x’s and y’s that make up the whole of me.
He had an inclination for mathematics but I remain
a single digit now, alone, with the knowledge that
she is just pieces of me he had never seen,
the sum of my parts left waiting to be worked out
by the unknown denominator that will someday be
the man I call my better half.
Can’t wait to see what today’s prompt is.
Have a good Sunday everyone!
Linda
Satia, Rhetorical Questions was a sad, but powerfully well-written poem. I really feel for you. Hope your poetic words help set you free a bit.
Alessa, Ithink Texture is wonderfully crafted, your best poem so far! Kudos.
Linda
Green Door Nightmare
Houston Texas, 1962, twelve years old
asleep in blue room with pines out window,
behind pink ghingham curtains Grandma Anna
made from fabric I took weeks to choose.
I put myself to sleep imagining walking
home from school in my new angora sweater.
I laughed with Jim Livinggood, shot baskets
at his house. Maybe he thought I was pretty.
Had to go home. Played too long. Had to hurry.
had to hurry. Humid afternoon under fall trees.
Footsteps behind me chased. I walked faster,
didn’t dare look over my shoulder. Prayed. Ran.
Footsteps boomed closer, faster, faster closer.
I ran for home. Made the porch, turned the knob.
Home safe, home safe, home safe, but front door,
heavy rich forest green door, with lion knocker
and beveled glass security window jammed shut.
Man monster tramped Confederate jasmine, azaleas,
Grabbed me. Pinned me hard against shut green door.
Lion knocker bruised my back. Rough kiss drew blood.
He smelled of rotten eggs,stuck toungue down my throat,
shoved hot hands up under my baby blue training bra,
grabbed my tender breasts, pinched. squeezed. Bit my ear.
I opened my mouth to scream, pushed out breath after breath
but no cry sounded. Tried to fight,kick, shove, but froze,
trapped, pinned, against my own green door, I could not
get away, I could not get inside. I woke shaking in fear.
Houston Texas, twelve years old, one year after I was raped.
the last stanza posted incomplete:
If you hear my night cries please try to wake me up,
wrap me in your arms and hold me firmly here,
we’ll push the real and unreal fear away, in truth
bad dreams surround us at all hours, every day.
Change
Un cauchemar can spoil your whole night,
screamed Mr. Rachett on the Calais Coach,
stabbed dead a dozen times, revived anew
each time the book’s reread or movie plays.
My scary dreams have yet to prove fatal.
If they are some night I could not divulge
the script, though it will likely be the beast
outside the unlocked door, the flimsy stairway
missing stairs, or the road too steep and narrow
for my car, my most preferred recurring themes.
If you hear my cries please try to wake me up,
wrap me in your arms to hold me firmly here.
Patti- I love your extra poem! I bet "Poetry is Like Vegetables" is great.
Tyger- sorry for your circumstances.
Again, great job (I love this).
Laurie K.
I actually dreamt this the other night. I practically never dream about people I know. It seems this cycle of poetry is taking me deeper. This makes me want to continue it beyond the month. Today is actually her 15th birthday.
"Impersonation"
My younger daughter turning fifteen
wears a shimmering green strapless gown
and elegant stole.
Fur? So unlike her.
And yet the ensemble
sets off white shoulders so well.
The studio backdrop, too, is improbable:
a colourless moor beneath gloomy sky.
She looks stunning.
I proudly approach,
but her face twists and pinches
as she starts to speak:
You should have come sooner,
You should have come more often.
These words cut to the truth.
And then:
“You are a bad person.”
Wind across the moor.
Her chin juts forward,
an unfamiliar pout.
I struggle to find the ground.
All these years I have tried,
and she was always the one
to put the funniest spin on things,
never tragic.
Has it come to this?
She wouldn’t be the first to say it.
I frame my response as a question,
trying to gain understanding.
Why does she think that?
But something else is wrong,
I’m seeing unclearly.
This angry woman
not what she seems.
An actress!
Who paid her,
who put her up to it?
Starting to wake
I realize—Renée Zellweger!
Miscast celebrity.
But how beautiful
my daughter made her look.
Imagine
Imagine a barren land
Imagine sludge to drink
Imagine bathing in oil
Imagine living in death
Imagine no life surrounding
Imagine breathing smog
Imagine your insides choking
Imagine crawling in your filth
Imagine your breathing rasping
Imagine the eyes rolling
Imagine scratching at your chest
Imagine bleeding and cracking
Imagine killing your mother
Imagine murdering your nurturer
Imagine choking to death
Imagine living your worst nightmare
…………………Imagine causing your own slow painful demise
A Pleasant Sea Voyage
They board the ship,
newest and best
the United States has,
settle down
to enjoy their voyage
on the Titanic.
Day 15 for SS:
Bad Memories
There you go
Nod off, my friend
It’s time for me to have some fun
With your past
Ready to dream?
Here’s a frightful picture for you
The time you sneezed in the third grade
And filled you pants
So embarrassing it was
That you wouldn’t go back to school
For a week
How about the time
You set fire to the barn
Showing your buds how your glasses
Could start a fire
It worked
But your family had to move
To a different state
And do you remember this
On your 14th birthday
When your girlfriend’s dad
Caught the two of you
Playing show and tell
In the hall closet
Was the show worth
The embarrassment
Nightmares
No
Embarrassments
Maybe
Bad memories
Or life lessons
You tell me
Thanks Rachel.
I think some of these poems are going to give me nightmares.
The Deep Sleep
That smell fills my nostrils
Mold, wet, fish scales,
Decay’s sweetness
Any way you word it, it’s swamp
The Anacharis wraps around my
Ankles
I tug, I kick, I’m a strong swimmer
But not strong enough
The light disappears
Dark surrounds me
I sink
Hopeless
Air gone,
Fear searing every nerve
But there is nothing, nothing
That I can do
I am doomed
Consumed
By the deep liquid darkness
Twas the Nightmare before School began
Before I start this poem
I would like to set the stage
In how I feel
I know that I am not alone
while for many like me this is real
Others won’t blink as they turn the page
Twas the night before school reconvened
Of their new teachers and classes
all the children dreamed
How to scam those passes
Fool the substitute
or just cut some classes
those same children schemed
While for each teacher
the dreams were nightmares
The child who’s falling out a window
when you just can’t reach her
Children running wild
before they begin you know
the principal will walk in at that moment in time
While all this is happening
some parent
will come unannounced to the door
seeing the others going wild
this parent
is gonna wanna talk about their child
and, with all this going wrong
you thing, now there’s nothing more
Little Johnny lights a match
in the back of the classroom
setting off the sprinklers
or get’s stuck in the closet, locking the latch
You hear a sudden Kaboom
it’s just a popped balloon
but your still shaking anyway
Oh god, what a first day
To some like me,
the ultimate nightmare
others might see
a laugh or two in there
Personally
as long as it’s not happening to me
I just don’t care. . .
©Rodney C. Walmer 11/15/08 Nightmare poem, I hope this qualifies, I know many have many
different things that scare them. I just thought, I would through out one of mine. Sorry, it’s not
the kind that go bump in the night, but, like my daddy always said, “Ain’t nothin’ goes bump in
the night that a bullet won’t stop!” Every teacher I know, goes through nightmares the night
before the first day of school, including me, have been for 18 years.
Day 15 for LL&L:
A Big Mistake
I opened my eyes to pitch blackness
Had I gone blind?
Nothing
Absolute black
I rubbed my eyes
They were open wide
Still not a thing to see
And what was that smell
Burnt
Fleshy
With a mix of rot
Crematorium like
Scorching the inside of my nose
Blinded eyes burning
But not watering
Then the heat overcame me
Intense
Raw
And very, very dry
Like an oven
Ever increasing
Parching my throat
Swelling my tongue
Searing my skin
I search for sweat
To quench my parched tongue
But none to be found
Anywhere
Moans
Groans
Painful wailings
Misery filling my ears
So close
Yet I feel no one near me
But all around me they cry
For water
For relief
They cry for death
Yet, no death comes
Then a flash of light
Quick
Red
Just enough to show
What I didn’t want to see
With my blind eyes
Now not so blind
After all
I knew this place
But why was I there?
Someone made a big mistake
Perhaps it was me
Did I truly believe?
Or was I pretending?
God, No!
This can’t be!
Wake me from this nightmare!
Nightmare Soundtrack
Michael Myers has an incessant ticking tune,
the one the director himself composed.
Jason announces his next dastardly act
with that creep y whispering.
The Exorcist and Megan have their “Tubular Bells”.
Darth Vader insists that the band play “The Imperial March”
whenever he sweeps into a room.
Then there’s a classical piece, that pipe-organ workout,
“Toccata and Fugue in D Minor” by Bach,
the generic theme for countless movie villains
from Phantom of the Opera to Captain Nemo.
If only my nightmares had a soundtrack,
the music might warn me not to enter that dim room
or walk down that dark alley, then I could get
a head start on the monsters and maniacs
that would otherwise chase me till morning.
Lots of good writing here today! Hey, Robert, how about 2009–the year of daily prompts?
Tossed Up In the Flood
Ass over end the little girl falls backward on the sluicing flood
That has splintered her swing-set into a thousand
Broken jagged teeth.
It is in her mouth, the foul flood water,
It is in her mouth, the shame of not running to the house
When she heard the rumble,
Saw the yellowed curtains balloon out of the top bedroom window.
It is in her mouth and throat, and the smells are belchy deep
Bowel smells, and earthy tramps,
Silt on her teeth like gristled deer jerky her uncle fed her once,
At Christmas, before she started feeling so alone
Alone as she is now, on the sluicing wave that yanks and pulls,
Dips and thrusts her out,
Throws her wide.
Upon awaking
She’ll wipe her teeth
On her pajamas.
To know what it means
To be as helpless as a bean
Dropped to the floor,
And kicked under the cabinets,
Never to see the sun, nor dissolve
Into tangy earth,
To be an inert thing,
A useless stone bean.
The dream revisits her from time to time,
It is in her mouth, it is in her breath, and sometimes upon waking
Her mouth tastes as if it had been filled with earth.
The Elevator is Stuck Between the 12th and the14th Floors
the Reverened Jerry Falwell’s voice a steady shower from overhead speakers
our faces canted up to meet it, eyes closed, an attitude of supplication
accidentally evoked by our instinct to seek high ground, fresh air,
crammed
as we are together, damp wool topcoat to slishing ski jacket, slush
seeping brown on brown lineoleum, not a friend
among us, we are all foreign smells, nerve-sweat
blossoming, sucking into and out of our lungs,
and itches introduce themselves under collars
and along elastics, a wrist is rubbed raw
by a wet woolen mitten’s cuff, digestive blips
murmur, an undercurrent to the sermon,
which is getting louder.
Cool Connie.. I like
The domino theme has been great in your hands.
Texture
It always starts the same,
textured white walls swim
in and out of focus as I lie
half awake, wondering where
I am. Who I am. The space
around me unfamiliar. White
walls close in around me, the
ceiling lowers and I can’t
breathe. The darkness encroaches
as I rear out of bed to the
reinforced glass window
set in the door. My mouth
opens to scream and I wake
to textured white walls
that swim in and out of focus.
Surrounded
I am surrounded by a circle of clocks: old clocks,
new clocks, alarm clocks, cuckoo clocks, grandfather
clocks, small clocks, large clocks. Each clock ticks
loud, then louder, as the horrid procession moves in closer,
tighter. Each clock face sneers, jeers with intense eyes
and curled toothless mouths. Clock hands reach away
from the clock faces, attempt to seize me as I attempt
to run; but their spindly legs grow long, strong. The
unwelcome intruders move in so close I can smell
stagnant breath as the wire fingers begin to assault
my body. The clocks stop ticking. I cannot scream.
I cannot run. I’m trapped in time. No escape possible.
I’ll respond later, kind of hard to just focus on one type of nightmare in relation to Joker
.
“Sand”
I awoke with sand between my lips
Parched and dry I prayed for just a sip;
Everywhere the eye could look
There was only sand even by the dried up brook;
There used to be trees
And sweet honey bees;
Now there is nothing but sand
A dry, hot and barren land;
Wake up! I say, please be a dream
But it is exactly as it seems.
Nightmare
When Neal stops needing drinks, he dreams
and climaxes to a nightmare. It is his daughter
whose death lays before him like a growling dog.
Isabella is laughing while this happens–no
not at the dying, at Neal’s incompetence. He has
no arms in this vision, he cannot act except to continue
walking. He cranes his neck and looks at the scene.
She is red from head to toe with bits of gravel coursing
their way through her bloodstream. There is glass
covering her hair in shards. It must have been a car
accident he always thinks as his feet keep moving,
his neck hurt from twisting to look back
at his little girl motionless, his wife’s laughter
and all that glass. There is no God in this.
Reoccurring nightmare
Six AM and I am about to
close my charts and head for home
when I realize I had a patient all
night that I didn’t see
I run to the room thinking of
all the medicines missed
all the hours gone by without
checking up on them
I wake up and wonder how
any one survives
all night alone
The roar of the waterfalls is becoming deafening
But we cannot steer the boat to the shore
I flail my arms with all my strength
Suddenly we are falling down,down…
Heart beating wildly I open my eyes
To see my golden retrievers tongue
As he licks my face.
The hard floorboards beside my bed
Where I landed all tangled in my sheets
Are pressing into my back and I stumble up
To begin another pre-dawn ritual
Of walking the dog in the dark.
This is from my chapbook "Poetry is Like Vegetables" … I thought I would throw it in the mix.
Every night
When it got real late
She tried to remember
Why she fought so hard
And what
She was fighting
Against
But after she dreamed
And the sun rose
A few hours later
She always
Felt hopeful again
With not so much
Fight left inside her
That way she was able
To greet the day
With a new hope
Apropo of nothing at all and perhaps something Ringo might offer to clientele in his Yellow Taxi… (I remember this fom my childhood)
The spring is sprung#
the grass is riz
I wonders where
the boidies is
the little boidies
on the wing
Ain’t that obsoid!
The wing is on the boid!
Jimmy the Greek
DreamState
As long as her ears could hear,
the sounds of the room,
the click and whir of new breathing,
the synthesized rhythms of her heart,
the occasional drip that tried its best
to imitate the rain,
then senses would not fail,
the map of her brain could in error,
there was life and time
to say, “I love you” and
“I’m Sorry.”
As long as her eyes were open –,
even in her garden state—
she did not have to witness
the sterile nightmare,
with its crisp white sheets
and purposefully selected accents,
attended by caretakers
in starched and pressed uniforms –
always in gloves –
So as long as her hands were folded
upon her chest –
never leaving fingerprints –
the fear of the indelible touch
that would only serve to prove
that this was real
and the remnants of daily care
would not have to discarded
into stainless steel by strangers.
Yes. . .so long as all of these –
ambiguity would avail amerlioration,
and all those voices could speak comfort,
blame could not be assigned,
pinpointing the culprit
could be averted,
thereby leaving the possibilities
for future night terrors
visitors with blurry faces
peering with intensive care
into leaded glass windows.
Want to give some kudos to: Sara, Iain, Judy, Heather, Rachel, Satia and Nancy … good writing!
In her dreams
When the nightmares came
She fought to get away.
Fearing the meeting she
Felt the goose bumps cover her
Shaking body from head to toe.
Most nights each week
The encounter regretfully occurred.
So many mornings when
Her eyes flew open,
Tired from fighting in the darkness,
She was drenched in sweat,
Her heart pounding so loud
She thought the whole
House could hear.
She splashed water on her face
Awakening her adult self
To the safe present that was not
Her childhood.
Her mother was not in the house.
She was miles and miles away
And the anger she once used
To abuse her children had diminished to
Nothing more than a
Frail, lonely
Hateful bitterness.
The storm had rained itself out.
The only power the old woman
Had any more was
In her dreams,
When the nightmares came.
It was comforting to know the
Daylight would always rescue her
Until she was able to stand up to
The person she still feared the most.
Night Terror
The alley is slick
with rain, fallen on
cobblestones in
the moonlight.
He is chasing me
I cannot run quickly
enough to elude the
stomping shoes on
stone. Heaviness
permeates all the
muscles in my
legs and alarm
like a red fire
gong flashes in
my head. He is
coming faster now;
there’s nothing I
can do to escape.
I turn to look over
my shoulder and
see a glint of silver,
sharp-edged sword.
He is raising it
it over his head.
I am going to
be a slashed
bloody body
in an alleyway
under guise of
moonlight.
World Record Nightmare
My dream had come true. Weijers
invited me to witness the world
record-breaking Domino Day event.
I entered the hall, naked of course,
because I couldn’t get my school
locker open because I had forgotten
the combination. The eight weeks of
work by eighty-five builders lay stretched
out on the floor like a fantasy land.
Before the domino sparrow could swoop
down from the ceiling and tip the first stone
(while I was trying to run away from a tiger)
I tripped over a line of dominoes ruining any
chance for Weijers to break the world record.
Fortunately, in reality, November 14, 2008,
Circus artist Salima Peippo really did swoop
from the ceiling and tip the first domino,
resulting in 4,345,027 dominoes toppling,
thus breaking the world record.
With fires raging again across Southern California, this is in remembrance of my friend’s ordeal last fall in the San Diego fire. They lost everything. Surely a real life nightmare.
October 2007
A wall of orange
under billowing black
roar of a thousand jets
their hill gone
smoking ash remains
like the face of the moon
mind numb
she cries for
her mother’s china.
Nov. 15, 2008
Dear Moosehead,
All is forgiven. I take it all back.
I awoke this morning in a cold sweat for
I had seen Hell itself. Every Cab in New
York City had been painted a terrifying
red and blue. Emblazoned, each and every
one with a large M. The papers and all the
networks announced the horrifying news.
The Mets were World Series champions
and the Yankees disbanded in disgrace
(it was that or move to Elk City. Oklahoma!)
Imagine how I felt when your sister poured
my coffee and passed me the Post? I am fully
contrite and forgive all those who have sinned
against me, safe in the knowledge that this was
all just a terrible nightmare.
Pick me up at seven, I need to get drunk!
Yours grateful for reality
Ringo the Howler
Heather, I wouldn’t worry. The other day I wrote something that included Darwin in it and I noticed that Cheryl Chambers had done so as well. And Iain D Kemp and I both alluded to "wild child" in another poem. It just seems to be the nature of creative communities where the shared energy pours out in similar but never identical ways. I find it very exciting, personally.
Surrender
I run through the tunnel
charcoal dark and festered
with rats and filth unspeakable
The monster is after me
all I see is one hairy arm
and veiny hands reaching
reaching out for me
all I hear are the grunts
rumbling through the cave
and my fear as tangible as
all that I see and smell.
I’ve given out, my breaths
hurt down into my ribs
piercing pain but not as
bad as the fear of the monster.
I spot a ray of light
just up ahead and the
adrenaline pulses through me.
I’m going to make it
Thank God, I’ve made it.
I arrive at the opening and
look up and see no one
waiting, no one there to
run to, no one there with
open arms to see me, so
I stop running.
Cats, Poetry & Death #18
Oblivion
It must be a waking Nightmare,
for God forbid such horrors could be real.
Friends and familiars fade
before our eyes,
terror grips us as we
watch them die.
Children on their knees, sobbing
world leaders silent, to shocked
to cry.
What Devil’s scheme can rob us of
such richness? Is there no hope?
Will none survive? We are left alone
bereft of company and our hearts emptied of
the love so fervently given to us by those we in turn loved
most dearly.
No muse remains to speak of and none left
to compose the verses that uplift our souls.
Only emptiness awaits us…
No Cats, no Poetry…
…just Death.
Iain
Hadn’t read any of the posts before coming up with my lesson, so, Tyger, I wasn’t stealing your "reality" . . . just seems that my lesson is right on
Okay, going to read on, was stopped in my tracks when I read that comment.
Cheers!
Small Comforts
Her fingers tighten on the carving knife
as her eyelids open, as her fragile life
sways in the balance like an old balloon –
Ten past five – it’ll be morning soon.
Her heart’s still beating from their sickly grins,
from their yellow teeth and their flabby skins
from the snap-snap-snap of their slimy jowls
and the midnight hiss of their skeletal howls.
Before she can rest her weary head
she’ll take one more look underneath her bed
just the check there’s nothing there –
just a yellow, blank-eyed stare.
Lesson #15: Nightmares
She could hear the screams
All the way up the stairs
Even with her door shut
It was his day for a marathon,
Didn’t care who he bothered
With his sick habit
He made sure he had the sound
Turned up nice and loud
She kindly asked to him
To postpone his plans
For torture and pain
To a time when she wouldn’t be home,
The screams made her sick
To her stomach
It was always the same,
He did what he wanted,
When he wanted,
To whomever he wanted,
And took his sweet time about it
She could hear the endless screams,
Chainsaws buzzing,
Silence,
Then more screams,
Hour after hour after
Agonizing hour
He planned his weekends around
Slash and gash, horror movies
(I’m talking the really bad, gruesome stuff)
He’d rent four and five at a time
To be watched in one stretch,
An all day affair
With few breaks
Even though we refused to watch with him,
He knew we were listening,
Forced to listen
Unable to escape the screams and terror
Those movies were his school
He was studying,
Intently,
Figuring out what he was going to do
To us
Lesson #15: Sometimes Nightmares Are Your Reality
Reality
The nightmare is not the illness,
with the night sweats and vertigo
every time you try to lift your head.
The nightmare is not the circumstance,
with the yelling and merciless abuse,
even though you try to lightly tread.
The dream is not the substitute,
the thing that relieves the pain
but becomes an addiction that binds.
The dream is not the world,
and the acquisition of everything in it.
Riches bring ills of many kinds.
Reality is not what you perceive,
the things you see and hear and touch,
for gone, these will all one day be.
Reality is beyond this veil,
and one day we shall all stand bare
to give account to God Almighty.
IN DREAM
Garbage festers in the kitchen sink,
a dragon rises from the bathroom drain
scaled and greasy as oil-slick.
The carpet stinks. Sludge collects
from somewhere upstream,
up-city, its landfill overflowing
with rusted-out appliances, sprung
bedsprings, fetid mattresses
that smell of used-up life
to drown you.
Wake up in hope of daylight.
Listen to the dark.
Already the morning commute
is burning up the night.
Rhetorical Questions
What if
I never get behind the wheel of a car
Never have the freedom of the open road
and just stay here, not sure if I can
but never knowing I cannot?
What if
The doctors are wrong
And it’s something else the tests
Failed to see that’s slowly
Killing off parts of myself?
What if
He gets fed up of my fears
Drops my hand and won’t hold me
when I feel like I’m forever
falling in stillness?
What if
My children are likewise damned
Bound to get up unable to walk
Genetically doomed to fall
Like their mother?
What if
This really is all in my head
And I’m making it up as I go along
Unaware that all I need to do
Is pinch myself to wake up?
What if
There is no waking up
And every day I spiral into
A new circle of the hell
That will not let me go?
What if
There is a cure
And I am forced to take
Responsibility for myself
and my freedom?
What if
The only cure is death
And I wake up too tired
Not wanting to fight anymore
Willing to die for my freedom?
Trust
I do not place my trust in men
anymore
except the one
whom we elected to lead us
I dare not think that he
could disappoint me
as others have disappointed me
personally and politically
men have left me battered and bruised
and perpetually alone
I have stood strong
like a woman
despite them all
and now, despite myself
I place my trust
once again in a man
Yeah! I’m back…and I’ve caught up. I have written to every day of this month. (in case anyone wants to know)
The motorcade moves slowly;
top rolled back for better view
of smiles and waves, then shock
when shots ring out from out of
nowhere. Rolling cameras, frame
by frame, record the impact and
her quick response, her rush to
pull him to her, pink suit stained.
Bodies fall from windows high
above the flames, then one by one
the towers crumble to the ground,
and send a mushroom cloud of smoke
and dust to blanket. Strangers reach
out hands to hold while running
nowhere special, just away.
Nightmare scenes shown nightly:
roadside bombers’ havoc, scorched
vehicles, bodies swing from bridges;
temples, mosques and market places
blown to smithereens, as tolerance
is trumped by hate and peace can’t
gain an audience, much less the
upperhand.
Nightmares run in endless loops,
across the screen, then through
my brain, replaying, changing
angles and perspectives, but not
outcomes, so that, eyes shut tight,
I still can see, like reel-to-reel
film footage, the horrors playing
out against the night.
Nancy Posey
Tyger, I have a friend who went through this and she is now engaged to another man. My mother had a friend who went through it and she actually married a duke. And I have another friend who is now dating and enjoying life again after catching her unfaithful husband cheating on her with multiple women.
Laurie, your Queen Bee was luckier than I. Her nightmare is my reality.
The Queen Bee
Betrayal from another woman
with her loving man,
left the faithful wife,
confused and lost in life.
The other woman, a pop diva was she,
lured and enticed him, like a queen bee;
while she sat at home, all alone,
watching romantic movies, by the phone.
Until at last, the wife became aware,
that she was only having a terrible nightmare.
When she woke up the next day,
beside her faithful husband she did lay.
Laurie K.
In case the text editor on this blog doesn’t show it, each strophe contains line indents to give each one the appearance of an arrow tip. Like this: >
Unless someone else posts seconds before I do, it looks like I may have pierced the virgin blog wall for today! lol
Ronda
running sweat
run
sweat
running sweat
the chase
is on
all corridors
blocked
dead ends
everywhere
duck, deek
the predator.
prey…
pray!
retrace steps,
feel slime drip
from cold walls
feel your way
through ebon
halls
feel slime drip
feel running
sweat, soak
the bed sheets…
run!
Ronda Eller 2008