May 2013
The dreamer can see and understand how the mountain may hold out a welcoming hand to the climber who wishes to get to the top
and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand.
But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by
and the tortoise that sits high on the hog
or the dog with a tick.
Take your pick
there are so many dreams given free
what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste?
A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me
another fish swimming by in the sea
and golfballs where nobody dances
A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim
one more fin on a fish
I wish it could last
but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt
or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls.
Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars
Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said)
even in dreams can't get that into my head.
The dreamer and know it alls
and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences
offending no one
and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans
have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all.
Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there
why should we care.
To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time
with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there
just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne.
These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller
or perhaps it is me getting smaller.
I ramble so slightly
twice nightly
and three times on Bank Holidays
at time and a third.
One day I don't hope to recover my senses
leave me to the horses and white picket fences
I'm happy.
and as the dreamer sees this he also looks at a flat piece of land and sees castles with shimmering towers made from sand.
But the dreamer becomes the dream that's within the fin of a fish that swims by
and the tortoise that sits high on the hog
or the dog with a tick.
Take your pick
there are so many dreams given free
what dream do I see as I look in the toothpaste?
A wasteland and more towers growing out the sand with fingers that tickle me
another fish swimming by in the sea
and golfballs where nobody dances
A room full of romance where the lights all burn dim
one more fin on a fish
I wish it could last
but the best is what passed on the wings of a shirt
or the long flowing skirts of Victorian dolls.
Gangsters and Molls and big Packard cars
Jelly tots that play on the moons circulating like blood round the planets and Mars which is red(so it is said)
even in dreams can't get that into my head.
The dreamer and know it alls
and poets that fall into fantasy and wander free through the white picket fences
offending no one
and offering scope only for white horses and unicorns in freeforming ballet scenes with Jack and his magic beans
have seen but a part of the heart of the matter and that's no matter at all.
Drop off the edge and take a fall with me into a meringue of sheer lunacy and let us see what we see and if it isn't really there
why should we care.
To be fair some people can't understand how a castle made out of sand stands the test of time
with the tide that eats at the feet of the chair but we know it's not there
just imagination and the patience to look and like the words in a book that can conjure up a genie or Jack with a beanie hat or a cat that never sat on a mat but a throne.
These things I have seen and have known and have grown fond of the older I get and the mountain I climb is even yet getting taller
or perhaps it is me getting smaller.
I ramble so slightly
twice nightly
and three times on Bank Holidays
at time and a third.
One day I don't hope to recover my senses
leave me to the horses and white picket fences
I'm happy.
