what the dreaming self knows

in my dreams I am
a powerful witch
whose enemies line up
and ask me to punch them
right in the face.

in the waking
world I’m plagued by
itches and pains,
dirt, doubts and laundry.

I think about quitting
smoking and take every
opportunity to berate
myself. I take down
a flystrip that’s been up
since at least August.
I am interrupted in
reading an article about
how people who hit
the snooze button are
more intelligent and creative
by having to sign for a
Staples delivery
of bulk toilet paper.
I make myself coffee
at 3 pm even though
I’ve done nothing
to deserve it, and try not
to be jealous
of a young poet
whose quote appears
in my Facebook memories.

I wish I could have all
the confidence and courage
to make things happen
that my dreaming self
knows is mine by right
of existence, that feeling
that I’m capable
and undaunted
and powerful.

what can I do
to keep that bone-deep
knowledge, carry it back
like a knapsack
from the dreaming hinterlands
to the world where
I’m still myself
on the physical plane?

cognitive dissonance

how is it that my wild, wily
heart can hold so many
conflicting feelings
at the same time,
and contradict itself
with every beat? riddle me

I think of you and feel such a
fond tenderness for our
newness, the excitement of
life reborn, the elemental power
of green plants growing,
plants pollinating, trees bursting
with sap. but all this rapid,
rampant growth comes at a price.
old, dead plants and thoughts
and habits must be ripped up
by the roots, to make way for their
successors. that pain of
an old wound inadvertantly
reopened, one that I thought
fully healed, but now I see that
I only understood that time
in my parents’ life from
the outside looking in.

Continue reading cognitive dissonance

a shower of gold

I can’t be sorry
for living. you’d like me
to be a hermit, an anchorite,
to wall myself up
in a cell and wait for death,
or deliverance via resurrection,
whichever comes first. I recall
the legend of Danaƫ, how Zeus
disguised as a shower of gold
came in the skylight window
of her living tomb and sent life
straight into her womb. a
likely story, that. at least
I’m better off than she was,
poor thing.

I’m really no nun
at heart, certain poems
notwithstanding. you
wouldn’t like me half
as much as you say you do
if I were. you reminded my body
how very much it likes
to be touched, and it just
doesn’t want to let me
forget again.