The Poet Dreamer
Our lives are nights bereft of cogent dreams,
Sleep of light thought of lines of poems
Forgotten upon rising.
We are poets searching for truth in all dimensions
Much less our own lives,
Our greatest dream and illusion.
The mind plays tricks as symbols contest each other
In active play as we slumber away our hours.
Our day dreams are adventures with abstract layers
Of indecipherable, chaotic images and
Archetypes creating a play of poems.
Elusive are the truths hidden on the stages of dreams within dreams.
In which dream are we?
We are dreamers fighting our minds
To make sense of signs and symbols.
Each day we dream our stories of
Mystery, terror, rhapsody, and salvation,
As we seek order in identity, our place in creation.
Our days are collages of metaphors and entanglements,
Battles with shadows, and fictional accounts of
Victory and defeat; glory and grief.
Truth is elusive and well hidden in then
Confusion of interpretations of our delusions
Of self and others.
Life is a play of art unfolding in a labyrinth of
Paths interlinking the past, present, and future;
This dream of life is not linear;
It is a chaotic muddle of symbols and
Lines of thought with no intersection for truths to gather
For directions on this journey.
Life too is a kaleidoscope of truths
Brought into focus in vivid moments of contemplation
In which we awaken to capture flashes of
Brilliant insights as lucid dreamers.
That is the irony;
That is the poetry.
Copyright© September 14, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard