Posts Tagged ‘dream’

New Dream

Why do I resist this room
with its wall of windows,
its low-angled light,
the tables all laden
with apples and mangos
and long braids of bread?
Why do I feel myself
leaning away
from miraculous abundance,
white linen cloths,
and pale yellow bouquets?
This cake is sweet
but I cannot taste it.
Surrounded by food,
I have a different hunger.
Surrounded with lushness,
I feel a different need.
Sometimes what the heart
most craves is
the fast between the feasts,
the spaciousness
filled only by love.
I am not afraid
of emptiness.
I need what I need,
and it’s spare.
Thank you for the feast—
I don’t mean to be ungrateful.
There is beauty, too,
in barrenness.
I don’t want to fill
this hole.

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The heart doesn’t have perfectionism.
            —Joi Sharp

All night I dreamt
I was teaching a class
I’d never prepared for.
I’d never even seen
the textbook,
didn’t have a roster
for the students,
and couldn’t understand
how I’d arrived in this place
where I seemed destined
to let everyone down.
Even the chalk wouldn’t work
on the chalkboard.
All night I fought
an inner monster,
the one that says,
You are not enough.
All night it chased me
through the channels
of my fears, those
synaptic paths
well-traveled for years.
Oh world, let me be
the student.
Let me be one
who learns to live
through the heart,
who loves with confidence.
Let me study the ways
love meets the monster—
not with a fight
but with indifference.

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And there my son was, standing with me
in a giant warehouse, trying on new shirts.
Both of us knew he had died,
and both of us knew we were now in a parallel reality
in which he had made a different choice.
I could still remember that other life,
that one in which I lost him,
so I wanted to ask him
if he remembered what it felt like to die.
Ask later, I thought. Give him space, give him time.
But he said, as he held up a blue t-shirt,
This time I am going to take things easier.
This time, I’m not going to stress so much
about grades and stuff.
Then he shrugged, and smiled, content in his tall body.

I knew it was a dream, and so, as the dawn light
entered my awareness, I willed myself
to stay in this place where he was with me,
this place where he was at peace.
I woke eventually, of course,
because that is what the living do.
But a week later, I still feel it,
how I live one foot in the world
where he is not here,
one foot in the world
where everything is possible,
even togetherness,
even peace.

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He was taller, having grown since his death,
and his hair needed to be washed, but here
he was, in my dream, my son, so at ease
in his body, so warm in his speech,
as if he had come for the sole purpose
of letting me know he is thriving.
We talked about what he wanted
to pass on to his children,
and I melted with relief to learn
he was looking forward to his life.
When we said goodbye, he took me in his arms
and hugged me so long, by morning,
and long after lunch, I forgot
it was a dream.

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from sweet nectar
and bitter pollen
all the honey

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My Son’s First Word

He pointed at the grass
beneath the cottonwood tree
and said “dado.”
Shadow? I asked.
Not ball, not mama,
not cat, not dad.
Already at one,
he was aware of both
what is and what isn’t here—
how sometimes the light
is intercepted.
After Finn died, I dreamt
a young boy taught me
how I could help my son’s
transformation by
guiding his energy
through the shadow
of a total eclipse,
a golden corona flaming
about the circumference.
All night, certain I was awake,
I pulled luminous swirls
through the dark center, and
Finn’s energy disappeared
into the heart of the shadow,
into the light beyond.
A shadow is nothing,
of course, which is to say
it is also everything. The way
my life is now steeped
in the shadow of his life,
the way the shape of him
follows me everywhere I go.


this poem has been published in ONE ART

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It was a dream, but I tell you
everything was on fire in the house—
I knew the whole island would burn,
and I had to choose what to take
and I ran past the old records
and thought, I have those songs in me,
and I ran past the books
and thought, I have those stories,
and I ran past the photos
and thought, those memories
are already with me,
so I ran, chased by flames,
toward the ocean
with the only thing
I can really carry, this buoyant love,
and I dove in, hands empty,
able to cup the water
and pull through the tide.
The salt water lifted me,
whispered in waves: letting go
is what keeps you alive


Hi friends, sorry the poem is late! We had no internet last night. Happy almost solstice–I have never been so ready for the light. 
Love, Rosemerry

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And so I learn I am porous—
learn I am not just dust,
but soil. Everything
moves through me.
I am not the container
I believed myself to be,
but a portion of earth
more other than self.

In a dream, I was told,
The body is permeable
to life and to death.

I want to remember
that voice. I want to remember
how it feels to be earth,
to know the self as both living
and dead.

I want to remember how absence
has never felt more holy,
how its sacredness is rivaled
only by the holiness of what’s here.

No separation, said the voice.

I want to remember
the infinite dark inside
each infinite moment,
how both soil and time
are planted with stars.

Oh sweet teachings
that I cannot understand,
how they spiral out
like galaxies inside me,
how they slip
like loose soil through my hands.

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I wish you the peace of sleep,
your breath a canoe
that carries you
toward the next moment
without any need
for you to touch the oars.
How easily you arrive.

Oh, to trust the world like that—
trust you will be carried,
not just in sleep,
but in waking dreams,
trust no matter how high the waves,
the skiff of grace
has a seat for you.
And oh, to let go of the oars—
there is no steering
toward what comes next.

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Identity Check

When they asked
for my identity card
I looked in my purse
and found someone else’s.
And someone else’s.
And someone else’s.
But not mine.
But it’s me, I said.
I turned to my friends
so they could vouch for me,
but their word was not enough
to prove I was myself.
When I woke,
I leaned deeper
into my being, my breath
giving me what no card,
no word could do.
Even the flesh is a trick.
Oh, how the morning shines.

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