Dead, Dying and the Dreamer
Desire offered me a Joyful Blindness
new each time from the Caldron
such that I succumbed each time
moved thereby
to cheat Death himself
accepting thereby the double
conundrum
that a too intense Desire
can kill the Dream it inspires
and sometimes too, kill the Dreamer
condemning him or her perhaps
to surfing the tides of blowback
the Damocles Pillars of Blame and Time,
seeing Fate toss dice
with his life
in the back room
where secrets hold
sway
and lie down
with Soothing Regrets
who utters
"It's not your fault."
Where pressures are
presented;
where I get to
wed my Desire
where I get to
go away
into Indeterminate Time
and come back
wondering where I have been
and guilty bred I
punish those ugly muses
which time and time again
take me right back
to square one
where next time I do it all over again;
Desire's slave or consort
undetermined
yet I am
lashed to the mast
of that runaway ship
adrift with the tides
destination unknown, uncertainty
until the Final One
which is easily foreseen
in that scene
where the Reaper laughs
saying
"In the end all come to me
some crying, some denying
some defiant
some bitter draught drinkers
of their erstwhile lives
but all succumb
to my dark web at end;
yet in this
none I resent more
than types like you, " he said
"who come plumped up smiling
sated from Life's Desires.
irritating me the more than the others
because those like you enjoyed their lives
despite my entreaties
that they should not.
Nay they wed their desires
fulfilled them
willingly paying the price
in Despairs coin
because you see my friend
the Dreamers
cheat me
Death
even after they are dead.
A secret well known
but seldom recognized;
if you kill the dream,
you, too, have killed the dreamer
and their death my friend
is final;
but in those like you
those with the capacity for rampaging Desire
preceding the dream
cheat me Death
and you are my mortal enemy.
Better you humans not understand
that the secret is
better to over-sip
Desire
than not to desire at all
than not
to Dream at all.
The Desireless
are the ones I crave
because they come to me already dead.
I like the one's who have spent
their lives self-denied
because they become
for me my dead and docile
and are easily plied
Into my Marching Lines
of the Well-Disciplined
and
truly
Dead Now and Gone.
The Dreamers
alas,
I've learned
cheat me Death
because their Dream lives on
and on.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Related quotes
If Only Wishes Were Horses, Part 3
I wish to wish the wish you wish to wish
But if you wish to wish the wish the witch wishes,
I won't wish to wish the wish you wish to wish.
I'd wish like you - like you do
and the wishes of ours would surely come true
If only wishes were horses!
I dream to dream the dream you dream to dream
But if you dream to dream the dream the dead dream,
I won't dream to dream the dream you dream to dream.
I'd dream like you - like you do
and the dreams of ours would thus come true
If only wishes were horses!
I desire to desire the desire you desire to desire,
But, if you desire to desire the desire the deer desires
I won't desire to desire the desire you desire to desire.
I'd desire like you - like you do
and our desires would really come true
If only wishes were horses!
I choose to choose the shoes you choose to choose,
But, if you choose to choose the shoes the Jews choose,
I won't choose to choose the shoes you choose to choose.
I'd walk in your shoes - your shoes of success
And then I'd have no stress,
If only wishes were horses!
I love to love the love you love to love,
But if you love to love the love the losers love
Then I won't love to love the love you love to love.
I'd love you and the world,
I'd love you more than itself the word,
If only wishes were horses!
I would, anyway, wish or dream or desire or choose or love like you do
BUT it surely would come true
If only, if only, if only wishes were horses!
poem by Comfort Ndlovu
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Being Dead
They came to her to tell her that she was dead-
passed away in her sleep.
But, ' she retorted, this must be a dream
and cannot be so-
I'm not dead-perhaps still asleep.'
'No', they said, 'dead and nothing to be done;
acceptance not denial is what is requiews here.'
She felt her arms and said 'See I am alive, still here.'
'Illusion.' they said The dead always try to keep the illusion of life
because that is all they know
life is gone from you now, the book is closed.
'This is absurd; ' she said 'let me out of here.
I am alive, not dead and gone'
'There is nothing to stop you leaving they said, ' he said 'you can always leave life you understand is but a tree with death as it final branch.
She got up and walked to what looked like a door paused opening it gingerly blinded by a briight white, so she shut it again turning to face again to her interlocutors.
'What is going on where am I? ' she said.
They ignored her whispering among themselves finally facing her, one of them saying;
'We can give special dispensation and perhaps...'
She interrupted him, 'Special dispensation, what is that? '
'Well' he said 'you can go, leave here if you like, but only for three days and if…'
If, if what.' she said.
'in those two days you can walk among the living but they will not be able to see or hear you
and if you can some how communicate with them,
make your self feel alive to them
and they want you to come back,
then you can perhaps go back, go back among the living,
That will be permanent until you die again,
understanding, of course, that in time
we all die.'
Convince them? How can I do that if they cannot hear or see me?
'Well you can go among them, ' one of them explained
'and even though they will not be able to hear or see you,
your spirit will be present and that will be the trigger among them
signaling their desire for your return,
then that might make your return possible.'
'Not see or hear me, ' she said 'but how then will I be able to convince them I am alive? This makes no sense.'
'Oh yes it does. You have to get them to conjure you in their memory, wish you were still alive, remember you fondly,
wish you were still with them after all this time.'
'All this time? ', she said.
How long have I been dead? '
'Well now they said 'it has been over five years now.'
'Five years! ' she said incredulously.
'Yes five years.' he said.
'I know people forget, even loved ones can forget
you after five years, and they go on with their lives.'
'Yes, our point exactly, ' he said, 'then you are not only dead but not remembered, and being not remembered is true death'
Do you want to go, go back
understanding that if you fail,
your death will then be death true final test? '
She paused thinking how hurtful it would be
if she could not get anyone to conjure her memory..
'What happens' she said 'if I succeed and some one remembers me and wants me back? '
'That is the point someone can remember you yourself may not want to come back. That part is important.'
'And, ' he said 'you may not want to go back. If you do go back there might be loved ones who have moved on with their lives.'
.
'What about my husband, has he moved on? ' she said?
They did not answer.
'We can tell you nothing. These things you will have to find out for yourself.
Some, ' he said 'find out and want to come back here. Each is different-take your time.
She stood thinking about what to do.
To be continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Expostulation and Reply
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:
"The eye--it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away,"
poem by William Wordsworth
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A Poet Beseeching Death
When death came a calling,
I said, "There's no one there."
When it pressed for an answer,
I said, "It isn't fair."
"Not fair when I have so much
Poetry to give."
"If I'm gone my lost lines will
Have no chance to live."
For time being death has taken a break.
I'm not certain if it's tired
Or paused for my poetic sake.
One thing I do know, and that's for sure.
Again death will come a calling,
And then I may not demur.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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An Ever Open Door
Desire to live, love and dream
Desire to desire more
Desire is the flirtiest whim
It's an ever open door.
Desire to touch you once
Desire to break into a dance
Desire to hold your hand
Desire to build on sand!
It's an ever open door
You desire and desire more!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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To Silence Those Minds In Doubt
Desire...
Always seems to pass the test of time.
Finding one without it,
And with a dream...
Is an unlikely observation.
Motivation, desire and initiative,
Are close teammates.
And a team without desire,
Seems less motivated.
And the initiative begins to procrastinate.
Desire...
Always seems to pass the test of time.
Just like a success achieved is a conditioning,
Kept believed...
In one's mind to feel all the time,
With a passion undescribed to define.
And desire simmers like embers burning.
It doesn't have to rage to display what is meant to be.
A desire started accomplishes.
A desire started rarely does not end to flicker out...
Before it blazes on the scene,
With produced results...
To silence those minds in doubt.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The End Is Near
Death and life combined,
The feeling is unsure.
Is death coming?
Is life just beginning?
Not knowing is the question.
He's an old man,
Not strong, Nor smart.
He couldn't count the days,
Not even the days he had left.
"One more month left and I'm dead,
For sure this time.
Not another month,
Nor another year,
I'm done! " He shouted.
"Cancer has come,
It's here to stay,
And I must go my time has come."
poem by Alyese Johnson
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A ghazal (Many a secret it hides...)
Many a secret it hides, life's like that
In nobody it confides, life's like that
Often it makes mortals cry, sometimes laugh,
Like the ebb and flow of tides, life's like that
It arrives in joy along with newborns,
It leaves with death at bedsides, life's like that
It lets us chose our path even when wrong
But later, it badly chides, life's like that
Throwing all caution to the winds often
The steed of desire rides, life's like that
Mortals live from birth to death on this earth
How, when and where, it decides, life's like that
Stories it tells in episodes ‘Mona"
Its sweet time it always bides, life's like that
poem by Elizabeth Kurian 'Mona'
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Burn in Desire
dont play with fire
dont fondle my desire
becasue im burning like hell
inside this shell
ashes of my sin
enticed by what could have been
baby dont play with my fire
you'll burn in desire
i tell you to runaway
with me you wont stay
pure, but burned clean to the bone
with the burning edge in my tone
push you away
dont suffer my stay
just runaway
from the fire that plays
with your heart
your desire
ive caught you
you burn in my fire
cant fight away
what we know
will kill us, but in anyway
we cant let go
cant burn me out
black me out
get me out of your head
why the screaming?
your already dead
from desire
of this fire
kid dont play with fire
you take sin offered in my hand
im only a tease
smoldering what you understand
to a fire that cant please
only the thirst
that hurts
it rips us to pieces
beware of me
ill burn you eyes black
till you cant see
life from lust
or what to trust
i give you desire
now burn in fire
im your simple desire
take me, burn in fire
dancing with tongues of a devil
scorching sins
runaway, and ill take you again
ive told you my plans
but you hold my hand
smoldered by embers in my eyes
i hkkope you know this fire wont ever die
it burns in me
burns me up to death
till all i see
is passion, and death to the rest
take regret with the pain
going to hell
its all the same
driven by sin
all over again
play with fire
consumed with desire
poem by Kathryn Garner
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My Friend, The Parking Lot Attendant
—he's a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business
first time I met him, he said,
"hey! ya gonna make a
killin'?"
"maybe," I answered.
next meeting it was:
"hey, Ramrod! what's
happening?"
"very little," I told
him.
next time I had my girlfriend with me
and he just
grinned.
next time I was
alone.
"hey," he asked, "where's the young
chick?"
"I left her at home...."
"Bullshit! I'll bet she dumped
you!"
and the next time
he really leaned into the car:
"what's a guy like you doing driving a
BMW! I'll bet you inherited your
money, you didn't get this car with your
brains!"
"how'd you guess?" I
answered.
that was some weeks ago.
I haven't seen him lately.
feIlow like that, chances are he just moved on
to better
things.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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You're right—
234
You're right—"the way is narrow"—
And "difficult the Gate"—
And "few there be"—Correct again—
That "enter in—thereat"—
'Tis Costly—So are purples!
'Tis just the price of Breath—
With but the "Discount" of the Grave—
Termed by the Brokers—"Death"!
And after that—there's Heaven—
The Good Man's—"Dividend"—
And Bad Men—"go to Jail"—
I guess—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Red Maples
In the last year I have learned
How few men are worth my trust;
I have seen the friend I loved
Struck by death into the dust,
And fears I never knew before
Have knocked and knocked upon my door --
"I shall hope little and ask for less,"
I said, "There is no happiness."
I have grown wise at last -- but how
Can I hide the gleam on the willow-bough,
Or keep the fragrance out of the rain
Now that April is here again?
When maples stand in a haze of fire
What can I say to the old desire,
What shall I do with the joy in me
That is born out of agony?
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Sonnet V: Nothing But No
Nothing but "No," and "Aye," and "Aye," and "No"?
How falls it out so strangely you reply?
I tell ye, Fair, I'll not be answer'd so,
With this affirming "No," denying "Aye."
I say, "I love," you slightly answer "Aye";
I say, "You love," you pule me out a "No";
I say, "I die," you echo me an "Aye";
"Save me," I cry, you sigh me out a "No";
Must woe and I have nought but "No" and "Aye"?
No I am I, if I no more can have;
Answer no more, with silence make reply,
And let me take myself what I do crave.
Let "No" and "Aye" with I and you be so;
Then answer "No," and "Aye," and "Aye" and "No."
poem by Michael Drayton
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A Poetry Reading At West Point
I read to the entire plebe class,
in two batches. Twice the hall filled
with bodies dressed alike, each toting
a copy of my book. What would my
shrink say, if I had one, about
such a dream, if it were a dream?
Question and answer time.
"Sir," a cadet yelled from the balcony,
and gave his name and rank, and then,
closing his parentheses, yelled
"Sir" again. "Why do your poems give
me a headache when I try
to understand them?" he asked. "Do
you want that?" I have a gift for
gentle jokes to defuse tension,
but this was not the time to use it.
"I try to write as well as I can
what it feels like to be human,"
I started, picking my way care-
fully, for he and I were, after
all, pained by the same dumb longings.
"I try to say what I don't know
how to say, but of course I can't
get much of it down at all."
By now I was sweating bullets.
"I don't want my poems to be hard,
unless the truth is, if there is
a truth." Silence hung in the hall
like a heavy fabric. My own
head ached. "Sir," he yelled. "Thank you. Sir."
Anonymous submission.
poem by William Matthews
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I dream my own dream
When I dream of love,
I dream about you..
When I dream about happiness,
I dream about my families..
When I dream of pain,
I dream about all the sadness inside me..
When I dream of horror,
I dream about the nightmare that would
wake me up in the middle of night..
When I dream about the death,
I dream myself crying in sleep..
When I dream a dream,
I dream all those thing
that are real and not real..
I dream about all the thing
that are in my mind,
I dream about all the thing
that I desire for..
I dream my own dream..
poem by Heather Moyer
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To L. H. B. (1894-1915 )
Last night for the first time since you were dead
I walked with you, my brother, in a dream.
We were at home again beside the stream
Fringed with tall berry bushes, white and red.
"Don't touch them: they are poisonous," I said.
But your hand hovered, and I saw a beam
Of strange, bright laughter flying round your head
And as you stooped I saw the berries gleam.
"Don't you remember? We called them Dead Man's
Bread!"
I woke and heard the wind moan and the roar
Of the dark water tumbling on the shore.
Where--where is the path of my dream for my eager
feet?
By the remembered stream my brother stands
Waiting for me with berries in his hands...
"These are my body. Sister, take and eat."
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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The Man Who Knew
The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,
And from his dream forthright a picture grew,
A painting all the people thronged to see,
And joyed therein -- till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "'Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!
He painteth not according to the schools."
The Dreamer probed Life's mystery of woe,
And in a book he sought to give the clue;
The people read, and saw that it was so,
And read again -- then came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "Ye witless ones! this book is vile:
It hath not got the rudiments of style."
Love smote the Dreamer's lips, and silver clear
He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,
That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,
And listened rapt -- till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "His technique's wrong; he singeth ill.
Waste not your time." The singer's voice was still.
And then the people roused as if from sleep,
Crying: "What care we if it be not Art!
Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?
Come, let us crown him where he sits apart."
Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread,
His song unsung, they found their Dreamer -- dead.
poem by Robert William Service
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Concerning The Synthetic Unity Of Apperception
"Trash, trash!" the king my uncle said,
"The spirit's smoke and weak as smoke ascends.
"Sit in the sun and not among the dead,
"Eat oranges! Pish tosh! the car attends.
"All ghosts came back. they do not like it there,
"No silky water and no big brown bear,
"No beer and no siestas up above."
"Uncle," I said, "I'm lonely. What is love?"
This drove him quite insane. Now he must knit
Time and apperception, bit by tiny bit.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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The Four Angels
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee;
But Adam did not need it,
Nor the plough he would not speed it,
Singing: --"Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?"
(The Apple Tree's in bud)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee;
But Adam would not take 'em,
Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,
Singing:--"Water, Earth and Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire? "
(The Apple Tree's in leaf.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee;
But Adam did not crave it,
Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,
Singing: --"Air and Water, Earth and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire:"
(The Apple Tree's in bloom.)
As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree
The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he;
But he wished a flame and made it,
And in Adam's heart he laid it,
Singing: --"Fire, Fire, burning Fire!
Stand up, and reach your heart's desire!"
(The Apple Blossom's set.)
As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,
He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
Till out of black disaster
He arose to be a master
Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Realization
I smiled with skeptic mocking where they told me you were dead,
You of the airy laughter and lightly twinkling feet;
"They tell a dream that haunted a chill gray dawn," I said,
"Death could not touch or claim a thing so vivid and so sweet!"
I looked upon you coffined amid your virgin flowers,
But even that white silence could bring me no belief:
"She lies in maiden sleep," I said. "and in the youngling hours
Her sealed dark eyes will open to scorn our foolish grief."
But when I went at moonrise to our ancient trysting place. . . . .
And, oh, the wind was keening in the fir-boughs overhead! . . . .
And you came never to me with your little gypsy face,
Your lips and hands of welcome, I knew that you were dead!
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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