Sweven

Most of my nightly explorations involve finding secret ways through rock, water, or tangled wood. Always on the search for a someplace that my dream self longs for but can not recall up on waking.
Or storms that surge over the world in wave after rampaging wave... and as the storm passes the world is awash in golden hour and/or glimmering rainbows.
I've not known lucidity recently.
I hope you all are faring better.

12th

Great Gathering
Thousands of fringe, feather, soft quilled leather, greet a great gathering. Entry is by bridge or by beam. Cameras can not cross. I wait... then booms thunderous hell. Room by room the gathering explodes. Screams. Smoke. Suffering. As if possessed, leap the stream. Scale the wall. Attempt rescue from above... too late. Drop from roof to roof. "I've found the man of my dreams..." a song croons over the chaos. Drop once more. Feet find concrete. Rise. "Dr. Lecter," I whisper politely to he, standing. He nods. I turn, run, but am undone by a heap of wilted, limp carrots. Laugh. Laugh. Laugh till it stings. Through destruction, death, and love struck things.

Blind and Dumb
World is blue and moonless. She is lost in the shadow of a mouse. Where is her savior when prayers are blinded silent screams? God is blind, deaf, and dumb it seems.

Night and Nephew
River, a slip of smoked glass. Hills, waves of moon kissed blooms. Fields, ribs and rows laid bare and bold. Trees, bent ent-like things a-slumber under quilts of stars. Tread slow. Tread light. Don't break the beauty of this night. Then hisses bus. Nephew weeps. He is cast out from the ride. We two alone start the long walk home. The world is insomniac screams.

13

A Muse
Film festival lacks festivity. All rejoice it's jolting end. Surge out of the shell and into a limbo hell where busses are shut and un-numbered. Trapped? In a way. But out of the way we find secret slender trails. The refused find their muse in the body of she, bloomed.

The Test
Rows of empty desks tell it is too early. Will other souls soon sit? No. NO! Damn. It is test day. Sit and start to study. Teacher arrives, lays pencil, pen, voice recorder, and book on every desk. He asks if I am ready. "Of course". A smile and lie. When he turns, I slip into the student stream outside.

Clouds & Saint
Smooth trails make boring tales. A fisherman snags our lead by using praiseful bait. Frank follows despite our protest. Clouds are pillars, steeples, roofs, pointing to earth. "The weather today," someone says, "is top heavy." It makes sense. Watch strange floating formations while waiting for the return of our saint.

Demons
He is five. His speech is glass shards grinding, unending. I first suggest, then demand, then beg for silence. He hisses. Patience is snipped. Slap the little mouth to match each little hiss. He is unfazed. Hope someone will see and be a shield or snatch the little demon away. How did we end up like this?

Bit: Standing firm, with a sense of urgency, in driveway of my grandmother's home

9th

Drive In
Stars lay close, clustered like treasure piles spilled across the sky. Ahead of their shine thin silvered clouds drift and shift, back lit by the chill of blue-ish moon. Most admire the beauty of the free night instead of the movie we drove in and paid to watch.

10th

The Play
Shapes of resurrected sounds are sculpted and set onto paper to be played. Uncertain of my usefulness, drift on the fringe of well meant murmurs.

The Roar
Shale and slippery trails lead us to The Roar. It stretches strong and wide as the horseshoe. At top, swimmers splash in mirror of idle blue. Cautious of the currents beneath the calm, slowly into pool I slip. We find Serpent's Mouth, slender cavern worn into rock, a natural waterslide. Swallowed slip to Roar's bottom. Are we disrespectful to make a playground from such power?

Unchanged
Ripped from earth's embrace, a slumbering love is risen to light. It is unbelievable, by his unchanged face, that a decade of darkness and death has been between us. A heart can not hold the weight of what it might mean.

Cas and Jor
Rush into the rampant stress. We find the two. She is still she. Her daughter has shifted. The mother plucks battered baseball cap from floor. She sews and walks, sews and talks, fixing the found into birthday gift for Sr. Depart the crush to collapse in temporary caves.

Randonautica Rivendell
Church ruins on a hill. Withered waterfall, forged by human hand, sputters foams aside it. It's brickwork base a shallow bowl slick with filth and foam. Split. Some surrender to abandoned buildings beckon. Other march marshes toward mouth of the anemic stream. Hope whispers that we will untangle it and make the trickle clean.

Tree Threads
Wake. Behold the high of rust, gold, and glints of blue. It shivers neath soft northern whispers. Leaves are playing. Upon their swaying backs ride living threads. White worms, by the thousands, stretch, spiral, reach. There is no place to hide. Limbs stretch long and wide to share the bounty of their burden. Let it snow, perhaps we'll know a drift of cold salvation.

A Force
Underworld is never clear. Eternal is the dark that we must dust. A soft electric song sings through the sag of shallow veins. The Force has found me once again. Move dark mountains with but a wave. No. Not a budge. But where the fire hisses, soft and simple things obey rusty orchestrations. Snap a finger... surge of light! Soul-like shadows shapeshift. Cobwebs clot, creep like snakes. Trash dust devils surge and scrape. Stories soar on ink stained wings. One may yet master these morbid things.

What the Feck!
Discussing dreams and reality checks. Kay laughs out, "What the Feck. What the heck and what the fuck mixed. What the feck! Reality check! For those WTF moments." It should work. Rhymes have a way of worming into simple brains like mine. We test her spell. Surprise! "We're in a dream! It works!" I cheer with childlike glee. A sudden swell of clarity. And then, because no dreams were recalled during earlier wakings, a passionate declaration, "I'll remember ALL my dreams if I wake up right now!"

I woke and dreams came flooding.

Nov 6th
Hypnagogia
-Malformed face wrapped in flapping strings
-A ring from which hangs dangling eyes

Three Games
Teachers, long lost friends, long tossed family restore faith in humanity. It is rekindled through three games: one of words and wit, one of dice and seeds, one of cards and dreams.

The Fountain
She strips away the lawn and sows a tapestry of life. In its heart her self carved fountain sprays wild water whips. "I can help," I offer. She grins, "Thank you but no. This is my lesson to learn." Nod. Depart. Glance back at the mistake. Water droplets dance like jewels across the blazing blue. Shy little rainbows shimmer midst the butterflies and blooms. Leaves and limbs shimmer. Winged and wondrous sing. From a step outside, realize, mistakes might make precious things.

The Flood
From school into a surging storm. Wade through sunken streets to sinking steps. Daughters are frantic about the rise. Sons are fighting and fierce. A man butterfly-strokes down the middle of our river-street. Laughter. Crinkled petals and crusted leaves are thrown into the flow. Hope is floating. Hearts are high. We know this too shall pass.

Moonlight & Monsters
Neath a single basement window, in a slant of silver night, I sit. I ache. I write. Weep with silent, searing love. Spill a soul across a page. Worship she, so high above she walks on mithril moonlight and is spun in star frost lace. What? Whisper on a window. Little robins die. Soul is tossed aside. Scramble into night. But oh, a stomach twists. Orc heads roll and rot, overflowing window well. Dare to pick through lips, fangs, and froth to rescue fledglings from the frost.

Media-opoly
From board, to web, to wave, to page, then to social constellation. A game of a thousand rules with a hundred ways to lose and only one way to win. Debating scores raises wars.

Today is my birthday. Curl into some closet but she finds me, as mothers always do. Her smile is gold, eyes emerald sparks. She beckons. With reluctance, I obey. She has gotten me the greatest gift, she says. Peripherally, the greatest gift grins. Look away, away, away. Play blind, blubbering fool til gold is tarnished and emerald sparks sputter out. Why so cruel? Why does my bastard heart want her to hurt?

Hear the greatest gift. I ask who is watching Batman. See the greatest gift, all grins and ghoul green hair. "Hey," I say, "Aren't you that guy who was in Star Wars? Han Solo?" The greatest gift laughs mirthlessly "You're kidding me, right?" I give up the fight to hold firm the jagged stone about my soul. The wall barricading my heart falls broken. I laugh, "Yes. I'm kidding. I know you you are. But it's not my birthday..."

Familiar feeling flutters...

"I know who you are! How are you here?" Look to mother, "How are you here?" Finger slip through palm. "Yes!" Understand exactly where we stand, mid dream. Dance around the green haired gift. We laugh like an improbable mob of joker jedi. Then the greatest gift drifts away.

Back at it.

FIRST

Cut
With a smile as greasy as the hair on his head Brother asks me to clip his curls. With a frown as knotted as the twist in my gut, I decline. Inquiry shifts to debate then to a spew of curses. Such chaos from so few sparks of words.

Orcas
Fire on the Water is where we will be. We are Orca Three. They are Orca Eight but it is late. My savior heart sacrifices a seat to sort the mess. Three departs. Eight arrives. Granted a seat on the grandest of Orcas. Horizon shimmers nigh.



SECOND

Wizard & Spiders
The white wizard battles a spider swarm. He becomes one of them or they become one of him. Can't untangle who is what. Spell thunders across the sky. We all die.



THIRD

Hypnagogia
- Books, pens, coffee cups float in formation then warp into a wicked wobble.
- A stiffened mouse peels apart like a cheese string.

The Mismatched
He shows me how to chronicle collectables. They've stories and souls of their own. Mine is a Mandalorian sealed in a Doctor Who box. Two hundred dollars for my mismatched soul? No. Mando morphs into dual lightsaber Luke. I depart, adrift in the force and flow of fandom souls.

Eleven Lies
Kissed by frost, a Doctor lies. He says he is fine but the distance in his eyes screams otherwise. Sit aside the liar. Speak for a spell. Honey warmth settles. Trees toss off their tinges. Other Doctors are glints of merriment amongst the throw. "Catch me a leaf?" Liar rasps. "Catch your own!" I grin back. He rises. We race and whirl after the flittering fringes of the fall. Who knew a liar's laughter could be beautiful. He finds footing amongst families. Now alone, dance and dream as I please neath blazing leaves.

Food Formalities
My food arrives. Sister and brother ignore the door. Subscription backs away. Out from the bathroom I fly, waving, calling, nearly falling in mid chase. Booklet of forms must be filled before any claims are made. An array of invasive questions scares sister. Not so easily frightened, I answer all. Accept the pitiful reward. We are reminded that even small gifts are great... give thanks.



FOURTH

HYPNAGOGIA
-Berries cascade, from the mouth of an Arwen entity, into her cupped hands.
-Spiral tube twists out from eternity to swallow screaming children.

Reclaimed
Sinister hearts crowd the stoop. We hide but are beheld. Call help but are unheard. Enraged by the intrusion I throw wide the door. Swear up a storm that sends the threat stuttering. But they return, overtake home, family, life. I slip through the most secret cracks of my walls. Stab the threats away. One by one. Son by son. One of our own has betrayed us. He is made an impossible puzzle. Victory is here. But now we must clear spatter and spray of reclamation's way.

Up
River twists blue and deep. Shores are steep. Trails are brutal beauty. We find a face. Climb the near sheer cliff. Half way up I slip. Drift to earth. Wait. Watch. Others leap, with mountain goat grace, all the way up the impossible face. I can not see their way. Heart grows greener with each foot that finds the top. Even Mother, heavy with vertigo, stands victorius upon the peak. She decends and offers her certificate of success. I decline. There are other ways. I must wait for root, rock, and rut to sing of new trails to find.

Slipped into an afternoon nap. Woke up with this repeating in my head:

We're.
Here.
Underneath your floor.
Give a knock on where you walk,
We'll open up the door.
We're.
Here.
Underneath your floor.
Drop on in we'll show you things
You've never seen before.

So now I am dared to knock on dream floors to see what will happen.