I used to believe
America was big
enough
to equip
neighbors
of diverging dreams
the balanced freedoms
to design their own destinies
I used to believe
America was kind
enough
to support
folks
of foreign features
the warmest refuge
to enhance our own environments
I used to believe
America was deep
enough
to scrutinize
theories
from assorted angles
with rational reflection
to fashion our own fate
I used to believe
in America
Last night
I dreamt
I owned
A bookstore
Walls lined with shelves
Where fantasy
Coexisted
With fact
And each performed
Their proper part
In the center
Patrons sat and sipped
Coffee
Cocoa
Water
Tea
(their choice)
And communed
With words
In the back
Was an open
Room for artists
To craft
With camera
With canvas
With color
With clay
With composition
Above the store
A living space
To eat
To sleep
To live
To dream
To mingle
With friends
Up the stairs
A rooftop garden
With tomato vines
Cucumbers
Red peppers
Lavender
Honey bees
Patio furniture
Place amongst the plants
For me
To sit and stare
Moonstruck
At starry night skies
My nocturnal vision
Might seem
A fool’s fantasy
But
I must work
I must explore
I must persist
To turn what I dreamt
Into reality
Check out these other poems about similar subjects: Congested Creativity, Insomnia, brain freeze.
I believed in ghosts
Who haunt and taunt
Whose muffled midnight meanderings
And claps and taps
Echo in other rooms.
I once saw spectral spirit
Pass through a bedroom wall
When young
But now I suffer
From poor night vision
And all I see
Are shadows
Moving across
Obscured walls.
If I could talk
With the dead
Would I listen
More than I speak?
Are you friend or foe?
What is it you seek?
I don’t talk
With the dead
But we visit
In my dreams
We relive the good times
And revise the bad.
My ghosts
Are my friends.
I used to be afraid
Of ghosts
But now I know
They are not my foe
But rather my friend
And I look forward
To our nightly adventures
As we celebrate the good
And repair the bad.
I discovered the tooth
Of a mighty manticore
At the base of a banyan tree
I’m not sure why I came to these mystical lands
Perhaps journeying with friends
On a ruminating mission from Mumbai to Cork
All I know is Millicent is lost
And my mission is to rescue her
From loud howler monkeys
Or dirty desert rats
Now, back to that tooth
I found under the tree
Covered in ichor
Of some powerful deity
As I look at the fang, I can’t help but wonder:
Did the beast bite and trample a legendary god?
And which one is dead?
This poem was inspired by a list of words I was given. I used to regularly ask friends to provide me lists of words to use as inspiration for my writing, and I enjoyed returning to this activity. I’m pleased with the results and might do this more regularly.
