everything feeds process

Postcard from a Dream:  I Watch His Wings Unfurl

Front

Sitting on the impossibly green lawn,
I jump as the eagle lands beside me.
I inch farther and farther away
from his beating wings, his terrible
claws. I try not to make
any sudden movements, as my heart
pounds in my chest.

Back

I watch his wings unfurl
and I can only speak in single syllables.
He cocks his head and repeats
each word, watching me
with his one black eye.

***

I think this dream/poem is a hold over from Palm Springs. When I was in Palm  Springs, I stayed with my father and his girlfriend. They live in a house with a huge backyard and numerous bird feeders. In the afternoons, I would sit in the pool and watch the birds, mostly hummingbirds and doves, eat. I think that I was in this backyard, in the dream.

Postcard from a Dream: I Must Jump

Front

Of course, I am in high school.
Again. This time, I broke in,
after dark. The halls
are just as circuitous as I remember

and I am still running
room to room, trying to find
the right class. This time

the stories are connected
not by stairs, but by ladders
with missing rungs.

Back

I must jump
from floor to floor. Even as fear
slicks my palms, I take
a breath and leap.

Of course I do.

***

I have a version of this dream over and over again. I am in college again, or high school, because I’ve missed a very important graduation requirement. I am older than everyone, I can’t find my room for class, and I get lost in the hallway. This was the first time that I have ever had to traverse an actual obstacle course, though.

You’d think I would get over this anxiety, since I have a master’s degree. But nope, I still dream about this every few months.

Postcard from a Dream: At a Lutheran Church Potluck

Front

I drift from table to table
listening to the pastor’s echoing
mic’ed voice, grazing on globs
of fluorescent Jello salad
sprinkled with raisins.

Back

At the Lutheran potluck, I stop
long enough to politely listen
to the woman’s memories of potlucks
twenty years past. I cringe
as she thrusts her taloned hand
into my meal, scooping herself
a handful of quivering, sugared slop.

***

I work at an ELCA-affiliated school, which I love. However, since I am decidedly not Lutheran, I often feel like a stranger there. I am wondering if that is where this dream (and poem) is coming from.

Postcard from a Dream: From the Other Side

Front

I trace my fingers
across the rough stone walls, follow her
as she disappears
after every blind turn.

Back

From the other side, I cannot recall
how I escaped. I only call
her name (so close to my own)
to guide her outside.

Her response, a whisper.

***

Lately, I’ve been having incredibly vivid dreams. My dreams have been so clear, real, and easy to remember, that I’ve been giving my husband updates each morning about my dreams. Finally, he encouraged me to write them down, just because I seemed so jazzed by them. And thus, a series of dream postcards were born.

Now, it’s been months since I’ve written poetry, so I’m feeling that these are pretty rusty. But in the spirit of NaPoWriMo, which I am clearly not participating in, I am posting them anyway. Take that, writer’s sludge*.

* Writer’s sludge is the after effect of writer’s block, which causes the writer to write kind of crappy work. Sort of like clearing out the system. My friend Kate and I developed this definition when we were young’ens. I still use it today.