"dreamings" poems
I tried
to throw it out
along with the bubbles,
the yellow duck,
and the knickers the dog crudely
chewed
pushed it amongst silled plants,
now it stands,
between Thick Cut Marmalade
and Chlorine Free Baking Cups
a token, painted green with white
Maori dots, symbolizing
the small dreamings
of a tortoise
and since this house
is my body, see
how I have placed you
in the kitchen
and I cannot get beyond,
the simple meaning,
of daily needing
love like water, air
and how I don't seek
to see it fully
yet often find myself
checking if its there.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 12:14 PM UTC
Forthcome that which has no meaning
beyond the petty dreamings of a fool.
Trickled thoughts walk off mid-conversation
with strangers into the vanishing
managing to forget that I forgot them first
way before they wandered off
to inhabit the earth
but that's just me being hipster,
rather be in Pittsburgh
because New York,
too contemporary.
Very hedonistic with a lack of trajectory
or am I projecting to protect me
from an existential vasectomy.
Maybe
I'm afraid I can't make it here
Maybe
I think I drink too much beer
and Baby
I should have been more clear
I am scared
I am scared
I am scared of being a failure
and I don't even know
what the **** failure is
or what one even looks like
because every time I think I've met one
they've taught me something about my life
half the the high school teachers
across this country couldn't.
My home
has taken their lives,
my passion and my poisons
have made it hard to get by
and my parents
have worked and will mostly likely die
holding on to concept I now perceive as a lie
That's why I so badly wanna believe in nothing
but I keep falling head over heels
cartoon like slips on banana peels
Women; smart enough
to know a poet is a bad deal
but I still do it 3, 4 times a day
I let someone inside
and we'll make love
with words and thoughts
we'll tell each other what we dream of
and talk about the kinds of things
that can't be bought
cause those are the things that matter
at least to me.
But I guess
that's just me
being hipster
again.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
~for better days for the poet betterdays~
mournful tunes play silently, but still too often,
eyes wet but in corners kept, recurring then the
memories, keepsakes, letters, books, small trinkets,
not dusty, but dusky, resting on in-between ledge of a
mountain-sized twilight of well lit shadowy haziness,
edgy dark brilliance, a comprehensible contrast non-comprehendible
tunes that bless with equal measures of grief,
comforting, by memorable card flashes of good relief,
a dividing line, hazy and frequented crossed, a sort of path,
with no destination signaled, as if the path itself was an end,
to a meaning, a solution, with no clarity divined, a division
of sight and insight, providing an ill fitting reconciliation
mourning is electric, morning is electric,
letters, words bottled up in evaporating perfume bottles,
seeking the comfort of dissipation unto a larger atmosphere,
the scent in everything tangible, stronger still yet, in intangibles
that can erode but never ever fail to return instantly when voked,
by vision, odor, a particular child’s smile, line in a poem volunteered
recovered, uncovered, a post first writ to be written, discovered,
when time and place coincidentally breathe together, at last,
beckoning you to places where memory serves only as a pleasuring,
upright mind marker, decorated in chains perpetual reforging,
absent pain, gleaming dreamings full-replacing longings for pasts,
new verses composed, passing, a grand addition to a child’s legacy
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 8:50 AM UTC
I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity--
A mild and most bewildered little shade.
I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid,
But softly come where I had longed to be
In April twilight's unsung melody,
And I, not you, shall be the one afraid.
Strange, that from lovely dreamings of the dead
I shall come back to you, who hurt me most.
You may not feel my hand upon your head,
I'll be so new and inexpert a ghost.
Perhaps you will not know that I am near--
And that will break my ghostly heart, my dear.
1.8k
Alternating baskets of good fruit and bad fruit
the seeds are what we're after
and all we ever wanted
was a tree
to come to time after time and
have to call our own
the fruit is sweet as wine
intoxicating as sweet time
taking us away to a different place
while the world moves past us
outside the window of the car
it never feels as fast as it is
we slow down to accomodate
the feelings we're feeling
the dreamings we're dreaming
and the road keeps insinuating itself
under our wheels
another day
another dollar
and we hope the destination is worth it
I'm just trying to find a ride to work
so I'll have something to do today
and something to drink in two weeks
I suppose that's the farthest I'll look ahead from now on
That and the party that I know will happen on
such and such a date
Two weeks spent waiting
and slaving
for a paycheck trophy
that opens up the doors
of the convenience store
And I'll move in among the crowd
Purchase an egg sandwich
and a pack of smokes
and go along with the eternal drama
for one more day
I'd love to be on the outskirts right now,
when I have to do the grunt work
I'd love to be on the edge of the galaxy
watching it all spin and spiral
from afar
Appreciating the grand scheme of things
[This is key to my existence]
and I can easily get caught up
in the stubborn sighs
and drunken claims
but at the end of the day
I sit, and I wait
for the master plan to reveal itself
for the chance to say hello
to the person I think I am
for the chance to fall in love
just one more time
for the ocean to swallow me up
and tell me it's okay
to feel the way I feel
and that everything I do
is for the best
and I'll be nurtured by waves so sincere
and I'll be sure of myself for one more day
and I won't **** up the master plan
with incoherent human ramblings
on destiny and the way things have gone
and will go in the future
Do me a favor dear,
don't listen to a single thing I say
because I don't know a thing
and I know it
Just rock me to sleep so gently. . .
So slow that neither of us notice
the motion of the earth
spinning through space
So slow
that everything stands still
and I can finally rest
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
I dreamt once of falling,
falling, through
the tales of my life;
and everything
was dim, and my
truths were twisted,
distorted into beings
of fantasy, of light,
and of darkness.
I saw then that this
was because my eyes,
though turned inward,
had yet to cleanse
themselves of the dust
of illusion, which is the
nature of existence,
and which, though neither
good nor bad, is an obstacle
to the perception of the
truth. Thus, when I looked
upon my truths of vision,
I recognized that these were
doubly mine, for they were
formed not only of experience,
but of illusion, and the dreamings
of my mind. And I acknowledged,
in dream, that this was neither good,
nor bad. Determined, however, in
the view of my understanding,
flawed as it was through its
passage into my-self, through
my-self, I looked about me for
the eye of my beholding, that
I might wash it clean with
the realization of its folly,
and I saw that I was within the
eye of my perception, and that
it was in me, and that in ultimate
reality, my Self was the essence,
and the quintessential embodiment
of the eye of my perception,
which was clouded through the
veil of existence, but which
possessed the power to see into
the depths of the universe, and
into the sacred mysteries of
the cosmic heart. Therefore, I
reached outside myself, into the
vastness of the universe,
and inside myself, into the
intricacies of my heart, and
found there my eyes, and
wiped them clean. Held in my
hands, within the clasp of
my fingers, blind I saw, as my
eyes saw, the pulsing of the
veins through my fingers,
webbed and branching
bridges, filled with the blood
of my heart, which was life,
which was the essence of
the universe; for within every
speck of nothingness, I saw, were
the seeds for a thousand, thousand
universes, of boundless life. And I
saw, in that moment in dream, that
there is no end to nothingness,
and so is no end to life, even in the
midst of all absence. Seeing this, I
released my eyes, and
my sight returned to me; and I
saw through it my distorted truths.
And before the sight of the eye
of my perception, cleansed of the fog
of life, which had clung to it
unceasing, from the moment of my
birth, free of all illusion, I for the first
time beheld myself; and I wept, in joy,
and in sadness, for I saw then that
what I had perceived as the distortions
of illusion, were in reality, but the
essence of my truth, tilted so,
that the light of my perception would
scatter upon them, shattering into a
thousand fragments of reflected hues,
and that these were not the images of
falsehood, but rather my Truth, colored
in the truth of my perception, into a
form that I could understand, within
the illusion, that is the nature of
existence. I saw this, and wept, and in
weeping, my heart was cleansed,
and my soul was freed of the burden of
existence, and of perception. Adrift then
in the nothingness of my Being, I recognized
that I was not, and yet, that I was, unique
in the vast glory of the oneness of my soul
with the soul of the universe, which is the light
of all souls, future, past, and present, as it is
One soul, of all, above all, within all,
which is Love, and Truth.
I saw this, in the nothingness of
my being, which was in truth,
everything, as it was nothing,
in time and out of time,
in the glory of change in stasis,
and stasis, within change.
I saw this, in that moment,
in dream, outside of all
moments, in the circle
of time; and I woke,
to the illusion of the world,
forgetful as always,
as to the nature of
Dream.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
*I wonder if poetry is as good when your happy
Lord knows it can usually sound quite sappy
Love and birds and clouds galore
Children's laughter and so much more
But for now I will write of my gruff and my grit
The stuff that's all made up of ****
Relationships , casualties and inner daemons
The thick in which remains of my dreamings
Paired with that of a guilty conscience
Can only leave me to sound obnoxious
The fumes to ruminate the life I once had
Of birds and clouds and things that were glad
For now I'm ok with the grit and the gruff
Because for now it is the truest of stuff*
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
i wish playing ukelele didn't remind me of you
i wish the beach didn't remind me of you
i wish fireworks didn't remind me of you
i wish you didn't wear that one cologne that everyone wears because it reminds me of you and i smell you in every wannabe prepster boy that passes me on his way to the pencil sharpener
i wish other girls didn't remind me of you because you're always talking to them but not me
i wish holst suites didn't remind me of you, particularly the first
i wish sunrises didn't remind me of you
i wish late nights didn't make me think of you
i wish the ghost of your skin didn't haunt this entire town
until i am seeing tessellations of your silhouette in the brick walls you pressed me against
i wish i weren't afraid to call you
i wish you'd call me first
i wish that song didn't remind me of you
and by that song i mean that entire folder of songs on my computer,
the one entitled whatever because that is all you were supposed to mean to me
but now, you are more, more than a whatever
and whatever did i have to dream of before i kissed you?
i wish i could sleep
but the morning reminds me of how i'll never wake up next to you
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Let the ties of your heart loose
and shake down soft streams from your fine
feathered dreamings.
Allow them to fly,
and take wing into life's pathway of unlimited
space,
where failure is not to be found,
and where moreover,
fear will never appear again.
Your choice is unbounded.
Do not die before living your dreams.
Find your zeal in life's hidden field where you pick
every love-seed.
Grow it slowly into a very large tree,
the fruits of which free you to blossom again,
and which when ate
help you live wisely, then your heart will know
for sure it has a fine purpose , you are
born to live.
This is your birthright.
(So read the Holy Man's writings)
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 3:28 PM UTC
The Queen, snowed-in, stopped for
Cigarettes and milk
Then drove another hundred.
The Governor told her not to.
I suppose I did too.
But it's two weeks later and
I'll be ****** if we've heard
From her.
Passionate about black lines,
And smaller yellow ones,
Metal arches, sweating salt
Since stained rain came,
And big green signs,
With numbered shields.
She said, before she left, that she felt,
"Like a consequence.
Something that is constantly flaunting
How severe it is.
A recourse, to a long-forgotten mistake,
That just learns to be dealt with."
Traversing the wasteland of white
Can teach you a thing, or
Three. Like how you're not ready
To move upwards, if the
Phantom's shovel keeps filling
In your igloo.
Every time she left,
I wrote myself down.
Stories about how, when, and who
Should-Be-Growing,
And the day she lost Heyworth's smile.
I changed her name.
Poetic license, and whatnot.
It doesn't take long to
Realize, picture or
No picture, they'll all
Still say their 1,000 words.
They earned them, when they
Caught you with the flash,
In-between dreamings.
I don't need to hear from her.
I know what she'll say.
A scathing remark about my advice,
A bite-back.
"Lay off the smokes. The Greyness may not claim us,
Flagstaff, but sure as hell, has it made me paler."
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Sickening slime of men—who are you who hath cast the first stone?
Samson and Delilah—Did I ask that you cut your hair?
Nay, I asked for the briefest of moments that two held together
Against their breast, shared between twin ribcages and
Softly sleeping slumbering, tucked between the covers.
‘twere as if the man had left the moon and she
With her soul song’s sobbing, took up against the rising darkness
Wielding a terrible light in hand.
As now, I am.
A great darkness this is, that she finds herself in.
And doubling doubts of mischief calling, the sun
Makes known his truest searchings—for that fair woman
Whom the night doth embrace in a starlit cloak of exorbitant splendor.
But coquettishly she shies away—for the sun shall never be the moon--
And the rays of light are all too revealing of the crevices and craters
That pick their ways across her surface like clouds peppering a perfect
Sunset.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 1:51 AM UTC
I turn to you,
The blinding light that engulfs my presence.
You watch my suffering,
My painful, sadistic dreamings.
I lay believing,
Beseeching normality,
Plagued by vicious thoughts...
And I seek your comfort
Will your blinding light,
Luminous in my darkness
Numb the pain?
Are you my anesthetic?
Am I just--
Just the shallow conspiracy I am made to be?
My painful endeavors seem brutal...
But the cruelty lies in you
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
Twinkling golden tealights, in a saxophonic haze,
Champagne, cocktail dress,
A whirling, dancing maze.
Outside on the terrace, in the dark and silent night,
Black suit, green dress,
Melding in the moonlight.
Far away shines the moon, lone and quiet still,
Clouded face, wavering,
Watching balcony sill.
The scintillating tunes trip on, a merry-go-round of tracks,
Hot night, collared shirts,
Stick to dampened backs.
Green-grey smoke drifts easily, from curling moustached lips,
A cuff-linked hand, a bubbling scream,
She lies within his grip.
The green silk dress rips gently, on vined terrace wall,
A prayerful glimpse, lunar eclipse,
Succumbs and starts to fall.
The black suit man stands over, to the strains of 'Love knows best'.
Yet a glaring moonbeam stops him,
Its point upon his chest.
Then in the light of hidden truth, his rash resolve resides,
A guilty conscience, grey not black,
He runs, he slinks, he hides.
And turning gently to the form which cowered on the floor,
A face so sweet, so far away,
The moon has seen before.
It cloaks her gently in its light, and shyly hides its face,
Breathing slowly, as in sleep,
She drifts from time to space.
Then rising like the sun in the dreamings of the moon,
A Venus, white and shining still.
She wakens from her swoon.
And hurrying, she hastes inside, to a wheeling mindless world.
She runs from light, her; light's own hope,
A dream newly unfurled.
But, behind a moonbeam spindles, and on its gentle loom,
Are hung the lonely whispers,
Of the love-song of the moon.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
I sit before my window silent,
arms at rest upon the sill; I
sit and dream of silent things,
as the rain falls slanted upon
the gabled roof; winds sighing:
and watch the falling rain
appear, and silver streak the
window-pane. I sit and dream,
the world forgotten, and even
so do my dreamings change;
no more of sad forgotten silence,
color blooms behind my eyes,
and fills my mind with rainbow
light, shining, as the glow behind
the key-hole, as the blushing
dawn fresh washed in rain.
Thunder roars beyond
the pane, and lightning cracks
the sky in twain, but out of
revery, out of dream, I do
not wake for the crashing
din. Rather, then, in sudden
sequence, in a seconds flash
of swift cessation, no more of
color do I dream, no more
on rainbow laughing light,
but in the midst of a storm of
thunder, of lightning, and the
lashing rain, high above the
foundered land, I find myself:
and amidst all that raging
torrent, between the thunder,
and the wrath of Gods most
holy lightning, a single drop of
silver shining, strikes the
point between my eyes,
wherein the third sleeping
oculus of dream doth
dwell; and I wake. A leak
in the roof.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 11:16 PM UTC
each unfolding hour
it's your warmth that sustains my heart
its that light in your eyes that rushes through me
fills all my dreamings with the colors of summers day
reach out brush back a wild loose hair from your face you smile
run my lips over the edge of your tender ear
whispering sweet somethings and silly nothings
just to hear your soft giggles....
we build a home in the field
run barefoot in the tall grass
feel the wind on our faces
tread on the moss covered stones
our world is the essence of our love living brave and free
undying flame of desires heart and soul
passion enfolded in your gentle hands
tender words felt from deep within
spoken while we are exploring each other
wrapped in each others arms
********** and play long into sweet night...
find you with waking eyes
morning light upon your soft skin
each unfolding hour to come with the warm day
we will walk hand in hand the dusty trail
to the mountain top
you'll read your french romance novel
and I will drift and dream head in your lap
you sustain me each and every day
run barefooted in the rain
hold you in the pure sunshine
softly run my hands on you
release my soul into your arms
forever loving forever loved
© 2016 mark john junor all rights reserved
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
I might let my dreams out tonight,
And scream things I shouldn't, in my sleep.
I am tired of being half myself,
Tired of limits and shouldn't and don't.
Tonight, I will let loose my inhibitions,
They have been straining in these chains for far too long.
The colours that surround me in my sleep will spill forth,
Staining me naked, with a wanton rainbow palette.
Moon-beams will enter and dance with my dreams,
Labradorite glories, come to life.
Oh, I will be me, tonight if never else,
I will be fantastical,
Surrounded by night-bringings, fevers and longings,
What will they look like, and where will they take me?
Night psyche dreamings, I'll join you in the dance.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
Will these words ever reach you?
Will you ever understand?
That it has always been about you
As if it’s been planned
All those silent pleas
All the prayers to the gods
All the words I’ve whispered
Through this life I’ve plod
The winds have carried my thoughts
The shadows, my longings
Every sunrise, my hopes
And every sunset, my dreamings
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
i could lose myself in you
fully encompass myself
truly engross
hide myself
bathe myself in your scents
tie myself to your memory
tide myself on your shore
grip your thighs
long for more
but longings
only lead to hopings
and dreamings of long before
and long before i've ever dreamed
i knew a name i know no more
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
I sit and dream, on better days,
when the grit and sweat of life abates,
for a moment, for a day. Dreaming I lose
myself in fantasys, love and laughter, they
comingling, with the dark and the dying and
the twisted boughs in the forest under shade.
I love, in days of peace and dreaming, to brew
a *** of peppermint tea, and bringing it up
to my place of seclusion, up among the rafters,
Sit me down and breath the sharpness and the spice
into me, way down deep, and let it turn my dreams
to twisted imaginings, all hued in red and white and green.
They say I'm delusional, when I speak of the things
of my dreaming. They call me antisocial. They are
right. They call me different and strange and freak.
They are right. I know it's wrong, and it justifies all
that they say. I know. But it just gives me a thrill to
watch them froth with rage, the madness in their eyes,
The spittle quivering, hanging from their writhing lips
as they mouth their hatred, in gruesome obscenities.
It makes me laugh a little, inside.
And then I turn and walk away, bored of their hate,
and continue on my way, dreaming, already dreaming,
as I continue on my way.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
this book got no title
so don't dare compare it
to the others dozing on the shelf
man, the blank stare
you are reading, as stupidity, disguises heart and feelings, kaleidescope dreamings, overtures operatic.
mental fluidity.....
just workin in a different lane to yourself
savant to the art,
smart to the keys...
hit the beat....
find the real,
create the start,
just sometimes,
becomes,
the begining of the bugeoning of the being.... caged behind the stare.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 6:07 AM UTC
Our love was like an autopsy:
you cut open my stiffened chest
and browsed through my anatomy
and found your image in my breast,
and found my dreamings and the rest,
and found the place where we were blessed.
My papery, vulnerable skin
once smouldered under your touch;
I was always one of those open books:
burning too often, and showing too much.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Maybe some day
I will stop hating myself
for everything I did to you
since time has obviously erased
what you did to me
at least there has been enough time for that
enough time for me to remember
only the happy things
not the miserable things
to look at the shape of your hands
in a picture
and remember things that have nothing to do
with what I'm even doing here
in my house
thousands of miles away
trying so hard not to remember
and yet to keep in my mind
everything that drove us apart
that led to you
hating me
hating you
and hating everything
I remember hating how I knew
that I knew it would never really last
because we were too young
too serious
and I was trying too hard
to build a life when I did not even have one
there was so much I didn't know back then
I didn't know
that with you
it would be impossible to go back
to whoever I was before
because when I filled my cracks with gold
some of that metal was you
I still hear your heartbeat
in my dreamings
I wake up with the sense
that I am not alone in my room
my body remembers you so well
how it felt to lie near you
to hear your voice
how can I remember its sound
when I have not heard it in years?
I know you would go with me
to this strange thing called Dagorhir
that it would make something in you
come alive
maybe that's why I was afraid
you might be there
that you too had discovered this thing
and we would be forced to be near each other
and I would make myself a fool
either for trying to hate you and failing
or to still love you
I want to say I don't know if I do
I want that lie
maybe I need it
but it's still nothing
but a lie
I don't stop loving people
I never have
and you took up so much of my love
that I'm still finding it in odd places
picking it up, dusting it off
and painfully adding it
to the collection once more
It's because I'm not free of you
everyone I know is still in contact
with you
social media's triumph at its finest
and I say nothing
other than it is strange
because I don't tell people
who to be friends with
Besides, I'd be shocked if they didn't think
our whole problem
was anything other than me
because I was the problem
You made mistakes too
but not problems
and mistakes are normal
while what I did was not
but I have never been close to normal
and I should have known better
I should have behaved better
and I have only paltry excuses
that make me ashamed even more
so I will not say them
For a while
I tried to be injured
but I think I always listed your faults
with all of your virtues
because they are the same to me
sure, you drove me into madness
but if I'm honest
what hasn't?
I wanted to possess you
to own you
and I know now
those are the ideas
of a mad person
because even then
I refused to be owned
even if you already knew my soul
I remember how it was
with you
and how it is
without you
even if I can't remember
what it was
before you
I still remember
your heartbeat
your hands
your laugh
and your ideas
such beautiful ideas
and I'm sorry. For everything.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
sweet wishes so small
in their impossible distances, they
tickled almost, I trembled almost:
beneath ant-like trails of frisky teasings, I
was settled almost
as if moon on sea’s silk-draped skin
suddenly glittered in a glitching turbulence
and mermaids rose up and out
of their thick black skies of silver tremors
shaking beads out of damp-darkened hair
and questioning questioning around
who dare startle their monotonous dreamings
who dare tremble and
stir all dull-eyed creatures around; and
as if sea dared on
shifting reckless into the answerless air,
frenzied, and grasping at an empty night
causing hundreds strange havocs
for a moon so little
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 8:08 AM UTC