I found my old poetry books today. It was a little trip down memory lane. My original poetry book was titled "Butterflies 83". In amongst all the hand written pages, I even found a poem about a dragon and a butterfly, which I may share one day, but on reading it today it felt more prophetic than I care to want to know at this point in my life's journey.
This is one I wrote some thirty or more years ago, which I believe was inspired by a dream. I am not even sure if I have ever given this to anyone to read before. Perhaps but back then my poetry was a fairly secret affair, a time when I wrote from the heart but less confident in sharing the words that came from my heart and soul.
Prologue
In the memoirs of a silent dreamer,
memories are not always so quiet.
They may torment a soul for a long, long time
but that don't mean they don't make you cry.
Memoirs of a Silent Dreamer
Act I
Sometimes I wish the sun would pour magic silver and gold
and the Joker would play a happier tune
and not deceive us with his foolish ways.
Sometimes I wish the moon would shine
and hold her romantic notions to herself
to free her children from breaking hearts and shedding tears.
Sometimes I wish that the image in the mirror
that I believe I am in my heart
is the same I see in someone else's eyes;
instead of bursting open my brain
with the Piper's haunting melody of confusing disharmony and erotic pain.
Act II
Don't get lost in the battle of swords
flashing, dancing, fiery metal
with hilts sparkled with glaring eyes instead of sacred reverent jewels.
Diving and twisting, piercing in
and out slowly gushes a beating heart planted
at the end of a thirsty, gleaming stake.
Act III
This circus is in town
! Hip Hip Hooray!
The bloodshed on the streets
is washed away by sweaty dancing feet.
Trepidatiously clowns jostle, they are not really fools.
The clapping cymbals recall a booming band
With singing minstrels and cheering crowd.
Act IV
Grand entrance of flowing silk,
Brazen hair falling across half naked breasts.
Dare not to be fooled by the air and grace;
for a mind can be twisted and lost
in the hypnotic rolling of her eyes and swaying of hips
always searching for a surge of passion;
to love and eat her lovers
and then sated she spins a web
for her children to bear the tensions
in the fine architecture of a carefully planned life.
Act V
Lumbering clouds, heavy with rain
move quietly into a still quieter world.
Darkness stealthily creeps
Over a watching suspicious village.
The clowns no longer wear makeup, but stare at each other in fright.
The first teardrop falls.
A fool rushes from a sheltered door
to catch it in his trembling hand,
as though it were some precious gem for an ancient ritual.
He stares at himself within the crystal sphere.
Another falls, then another and another
until the clouds open up the skies with the clashing of cymbals and drums.
The fool
loses his gem as it slips through that unlucky palm of his.
All the others watch.
Afraid
Act VI
The images in my mind are a fatal reality;
of things that are (but are not really).
of paradises that seem so lovely and nice
but are really tangled jungles
for jealous monsters to hide.
Yes! Jealous monsters
Jealous that I can live in the light (not a true light)
but in the security that the sun can give.
But they, them jealous monsters
can only creep about at night
to enter my head, in dreams
and then, they can come alive.
Epilogue
With heavy eyes and drowsy body
I awake and barely recall
the feelings of a tormented soul;
cause sometimes the memoirs of a silent dreamer
can be so quiet
they can steal away so silently for another night.
Flying Solo Tip 058365 : I sometimes wonder if the changes we make in life are only deviations closer to or further away from the essence of the person we truly are, and therefore at our deepest core we never ever really change.