He says his father speaks in feathers;
a calligraphy all quill and no ink,
a scripted spiral through air
and into hands held open.
I am more basic.
My father does not haunt, but waits
at the edge of sleep,
where dreamed things go
not quite memory,
his words not saved in a pocket
or balanced on a windowsill
but gone when morning comes.
Great one, Susan. I can relare ro what you write about.
words that skip gaily on our tympanic membranes
as we sleep and smile and reach out to hug them
floating fleeting messages in rich cursive, dense in
meanings our aroused brains
cannot recall on rising – words that slip thru
the tightest fishing nets of recall,
As always, you comments are better than the poem that brought them forth. Thank you!
Seeing your poem in my in-box today gave my heart a lift. I think of you often. I’m glad to see your work again.
You captured my experience of dream-land poetry perfectly. Have you been spying on my sleep again? 😉
I hope you’re seeing more clearly now.
Alice–thank you! Seeing a little clearer now. I’ve missed you!
Good to see a poem from you, Susan. And what a poem, that first line is a killer. 🙂
Peace, Daniels. Keep writing for us.
Words go and
words come back
like half re-
they will come
when they are
So good to see yours–
Missed you too Johnny.
Hi Susan. Not sure what the first verse is about, but poetically mysterious it sets the scene. The rest is all too clear, and beautiful for it. Thanks, once again.