Dead,
the day before yesterday.
Grieved by it, personally,
Reputation: few or no friends
Suggested art - lost its erratic stars
A dreamer! Dwelling in ideal realms
                          -the brain-
Madness

Melancholy

Indistinct curses with eyes upturned, already damned.
Happiness wit hglances introverted, shrouded in gloom,
arms wildly beating spirits - sought to forget
close by,
those glimpses
open to the doom of death

I pulled these lines from the Obituary of Edgar Allen Poe to construe a poem that I feel has both a theme of its own but draws aspects from Poe's life as well.

now, unlike my usually trenchant literary librettos, I regale the unknown (tum me) reader for savoir-faire articulation, elocution, and indomitable tour de force proffered by a spectrum of bounteous expropriated hegemony rightful to Mother Nature.
--------------------------------------------------------
A Place Revisited Within The Mind
(an illusory escape during dead of winter).
The shafts of a golden veil, spring sun at noon
break through the heavily coated
overgrowth of leafy foliage
and cause shadows spar upon the forest floor.

In a field of wild
a mosaic of crystalline color
from the prismatic play of sunshine
upon the silently talking heads
of the swaying stalks.

the scintillating and sparkling rays
in unison with the weft
(and warp across an invisible loom)
weaves a delicious tasting warm breeze,

(which sways the boughs of treetops to and fro,
akin to an unseen baby being cradled)
brings a ladled spate of cool freshness
from the map-cap world (webbed wide)
of a manmade existence.

The grandeur of the fallow spring meadow
a pageant of exquisite dignity
by the graceful movements
from the un-choreographed fall and rise
of the unplowed acres

eyes orbit, ear re Canal,
and twitching nostrils of sensate beings
to the mellifluous sounds
and sweet smelling aromas
that gently teasingly assault the senses
beguiling the sight,

and lulling ears into a transcendent state.
A buoyant airy tonal plume
rises into the surrounding heights
touches the breadth of cerulean sky
and scythe lent lee gently tumbles back down
like a merry widow waltzing flowery waterfall.

In quiet circumspection
the antics sans plethora of BuzzFeed ding
busily buzzing foraging insects,
which contentedly hum and alight nearby

flitting to and fro
oblivious to plaudits encore
harmoniously thriving
within the living laboratory

of Mother Nature,
sans, Insects or Insecta are by far
count as the largest group of
hexapod invertebrates
within the arthropod phylum,

where simultaneously
underneath the earthen surface
the ground this abustle with
glorious heartthrob
of one micro universe
comprising architects, builders, and weavers
engage in all manner
of natural devices for a livelihood.

This brilliant splendor tantamount
with top-notch operatic performance,
a sensational visual and audiological feast
hypnotizing one humble human (me)
into an inebriated state of bliss.

inga Jan 11

i am awake at hours  
                                    I usually
                                                    spend
                                                               in dreams.

inga Jan 8

She stares at her window at 2am
like others
only stare at paintings.
But what are those
compared to what she is gazing at, so miraculous.
Her window with the stars outside it
is her favourite painting
and nature itself
is her favourite painter.

Star BG Jan 7

I am a philosophic dreamer,
moving on fields of open mind.

I dance and steps vibrate
in patterns of sacred geometry.

I sing and music echoes
causing heart to expand with grace.

I breath deep and lungs fill
with air infused wisdom.

I love and the universe matches my essence
so miracles occur.

I dream and all fits into place
inside divine timing.

I am a philosophic dreamer,
blessed inside the celebration of life.

inspired by Ravindra Nayak Thank you

If you're a dreamer
going without sleep
thinking of bigger things  
whats holding you back?
if it's anxiety
maybe you're age
maybe people you know
an illness?
it doesn't matter
go live your dream.
if you want it bad enough you can do it.

you yearn for freedom
then you crush it

you ask for time
yet you rush it

you preach equality
then ban all others

you look for knowledge
yet hide under covers

you want perfection
then you complain

you ask for sanity
yet behave insane

you say this is home
then tear down the flag

your heritage unknown
yet willing to brag

you ask for no lies
then don't believe truth

you ask for more money
our debt's through the roof

you look for happiness
and you long for peace

you hold onto a grudge
but you need release

you say you're a dreamer
but you don't believe

that we can do anything
that we can perceive

libby Nov 2017

i'm searching for
someone who actually
cares about me
someone who notices
my presence
and preferably,
craves it

i guess i'm a dreamer

Lay awake
Watch the birth of a new day
It's been ages since I slept right through the night
It's almost like the days have become better than the dreams my head creates
The grass has become greener on the other side
Sleep deprived
But my eyes have never been opened so wide
Creep inside my head
Experience what it's like spending years fighting with yourself
Just to get out of bed
Trapped inside walls built so hign
Lego brick booby traps stationed like mines
But it's fine
I've decided to make my days better than my nights
I've gained the sight to see I'd rather live in a daydream

Brent Kincaid Nov 2017

He has little sense of sorrow,
He thinks of fond tomorrows.
He’s a fabulist, a dreamer.
Not quite a true schemer
That would be too hard.
More like a half-awake bard
Making up poetic outcomes
For a reality that never comes.
Mostly he’s a bum.

He’s a moonbeamer,
Sliding down colorless rainbows
That he paints himself daily
Proclaiming about how gaily
The emptiness of his canvas
Has so sadly missed us
And somehow we are to blame
For not managing to be the same
As he is by appreciating
That which is not there.
He has daydreams to spare.

He shares his hopeful possibilities
That are not always practicalities
Made of unborn actualities
And fanciful surrealities
Painted over his shortcomings
Hoping nobody will see them
And talk too badly against them
Ahem-ing and coughing phlegm
When he orates and pontificates
On his latest boilerplate stories
Of his imagined future glories.
Lost in his own thought stream,
He’s a totally hopeless dreamer.

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