Poem: Waking Up

6 (1)

Waking Up

My dreams have not been exactly
sane.
Artwork landscapes with dead people,
or at least those dead to me,
insisting on showing up, dressed to the nines,
cocktails in hand,
wanting to share my dance.

It is not to be. I dance only when I am awake,
with the woman I love,
and an occasional child, unafraid of their laughter,
often joining in.

But I will watch the technicolor circus.
Amazed at what my mind can dredge up
from closets long closed,
from the remains of bridges burnt,
or simply abandoned to nature and time.

When you have already succumbed to madness,
you no longer fear it.
You know you can wait it out till morning.
And dawn and the soft breath of the woman you love
envelope you into peace.

About this poem

I have been having crazy dreams lately. The landscapes, in particular, have been surreal.

I love my wife. As hard as I try, I don’t have words for what I feel. But her next to me, anywhere, is a balm.

The picture was taken at Mass MoCA. I love that place, but it can get pretty surreal sometimes.

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