oh wow, poetry is a lot harder than fiction
I think this one is more miss than hit, but whatever! If in the future I post more than one piece at a time, I'll use a cut. Don't want to clutter your Friends page! Hahahaha, yeah.
Top Bunk
It was the cover of a book, my reoccurring dream,
pervading the small nights of my summonable youth.
My father and I bobbed along our secret soft focus trail.
His indulgent hand, warm and hairy between the knuckles
cradled mine, sometimes skimming the nosy gossamer brush.
Smooth gray stones chirped like twilight crickets,
winding fantastic yarns of their communal erosion.
We shuffled through, making our way to the clearing.
Primeval viridian lords glowered over us, their fingers
inflicting cool discoloration on our bright warmth.
The woods' louring colossi shirked back, kept at bay
by perplexity and awe at this tremendous folly of man.
Still they encircled our sacred ground, vying for a glimpse.
Gathering billions of meager emerald worshippers,
a Merry-Go-Round stood expectant at the crest of a swift.
Wood and earth, fashioned into anachronistic instruments
blinded as Ra gazed upon their carefully lacquered hides.
These beasts, prim and affable, welcomed my trembling glee.
My knees clenched their gold-flecked saddles and we rode,
whispering secrets, soft pink cheek to hard brown jowl.
No organs piping raucous, no others privy to the spin,
I and the wind mingled alone while the world pirouetted.
My father looked on, the wrinkles at his eyes reassuring.
The admonishing gawk of the world faded, and I felt it:
never again would I know a joy so innocent or pure.
The ride slowed, almost imperceptibly, as the steeds
exhausted from their service cracked, chipped and broke.
Their eyes, once bright and knowing, dimmed and caked.
Stumbling off, I fumbled my hand into my father's,
and we walked together into the dark of my dreamscape.
This was a real reoccurring dream I had...as I grew in real life, the whole environment changed...the Merry-Go-Round started taking quarters, the trees were leveled, everything grew old and overgrown, it stopped working, then it was torn down. Always though, it was my dad and me. By the end, we just wandered around the space. I don't know when I stopped having these dreams, but it's been at least 12 years.
I feel like a cliche goon writing about a dream, but whatever.
Top Bunk
It was the cover of a book, my reoccurring dream,
pervading the small nights of my summonable youth.
My father and I bobbed along our secret soft focus trail.
His indulgent hand, warm and hairy between the knuckles
cradled mine, sometimes skimming the nosy gossamer brush.
Smooth gray stones chirped like twilight crickets,
winding fantastic yarns of their communal erosion.
We shuffled through, making our way to the clearing.
Primeval viridian lords glowered over us, their fingers
inflicting cool discoloration on our bright warmth.
The woods' louring colossi shirked back, kept at bay
by perplexity and awe at this tremendous folly of man.
Still they encircled our sacred ground, vying for a glimpse.
Gathering billions of meager emerald worshippers,
a Merry-Go-Round stood expectant at the crest of a swift.
Wood and earth, fashioned into anachronistic instruments
blinded as Ra gazed upon their carefully lacquered hides.
These beasts, prim and affable, welcomed my trembling glee.
My knees clenched their gold-flecked saddles and we rode,
whispering secrets, soft pink cheek to hard brown jowl.
No organs piping raucous, no others privy to the spin,
I and the wind mingled alone while the world pirouetted.
My father looked on, the wrinkles at his eyes reassuring.
The admonishing gawk of the world faded, and I felt it:
never again would I know a joy so innocent or pure.
The ride slowed, almost imperceptibly, as the steeds
exhausted from their service cracked, chipped and broke.
Their eyes, once bright and knowing, dimmed and caked.
Stumbling off, I fumbled my hand into my father's,
and we walked together into the dark of my dreamscape.
This was a real reoccurring dream I had...as I grew in real life, the whole environment changed...the Merry-Go-Round started taking quarters, the trees were leveled, everything grew old and overgrown, it stopped working, then it was torn down. Always though, it was my dad and me. By the end, we just wandered around the space. I don't know when I stopped having these dreams, but it's been at least 12 years.
I feel like a cliche goon writing about a dream, but whatever.