I

Kernels of Thought

Unable to interpret my own dreams
whose images, both mundane and obscure,
loom fecundly on meaning’s brink it seems
and are, in deed, significant, I’m sure,
I wake both moved profoundly and abused,
privy to worlds larger than but my own
that leave me both enlightened and confused.
I vaguely understand the germ that’s sown
and grows from my life’s subconscious substrate
(fed by these pictures flowing through my mind),
extrudes into my sunlit waking state
(shadowed by portents that vine intertwined)
and sprouts into a concept that has shoots
and blooms but, as yet, mysterious fruits.


II

Paradoxymoron

What is it that makes a dream realistic --
a tedious focus full of detail,
familiar and naturalistic,
occurring on an accustomed time-scale?
Or is it just an attitude we take,
whereby we allow disbelief to lapse,
becoming more involved for the dream’s sake,
or a randomly fired nerve synapse
that normally alerts for survival?
Or is it a form of psychic presage
announcing some danger or arrival
or a moral or ethical message?
Restful sleep brings dreams -- to the soul a meal:
Fueled by dreams, the mind determines what’s real.


III

Paradigm

Nocturnal hallucinations enthrall
my mind in slumbering delirium.
Evolving from nothing I can recall,
the circumstances of these visions come
to dominate all else that I may know
of real-life concerns and day-to-day trusts --
sometimes with unknown purpose, some just grow
from nightmarish griefs or unfulfilled lusts.
Till waking, I don’t even think to try
to see past what I have let overwhelm --
the dreams so real and involving that I
do not conceive a world outside their realm.
Existing for possibility’s sake,
if not for dreams, I wouldn’t know I wake.

 
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