Audio · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

The Poet Dreamer

 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.

 

© September 14, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Original Digital Art: “The Poet Dreamer” ©Martha Harris  See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog

 

Healing · Poem · Poetry · Reiki

Shadow

Shadow

Shadow clings to me;

I, to the Light.

No angle to the sun

Will rid me of Shadow.

Shadow is tallest

At highest Light,

And dimmest

At highest Night.

 

Freedom from Shadow

Is an illusion.

She is always over my shoulder and

Hard to slap

When she constantly rebukes me

Into my tormented ears.

 

Evasive yet underfoot,

Like old gum

Stuck to my shoes

being dragged

Through mud and straw.

 

Even at night,

Shadow grips onto me.

My specter in lamp light,

How she looms across a wall

Watching me read,

And how she enfolds me as I sleep

With her cold arms.

 

Sleek, silky Sorceress,

No face,

Only form;

She is the outline of

The dark side of my soul,

The color of abyss,

The size of void.

Her breath reeks of

Cosmic dust.

 

She is my pesky hag,

My tyrant,

My saboteur,

My martyr,

My critic,

My blackmailer.

 

My constant companion

And biographer,

She has written the novels of all my lives,

The Akashic Scholar assigned to me at birth.

My secrets rest with Shadow;

She knows all my doubts, fears, trespasses, sins.

 

Shadow holds the causes

Of my discords and dis-ease.

My contender, she greedily obscures

That which I must discover,

My authentic selves

In all my lives.

 

If I uncover my truth,

She will lose me forever,

And she cannot bear to be alone.

Shadow has no shadow

To bear.

 

Still, she must give up my secrets

If I persist.

Though she is a wounded healer,

Shadow will never heal

Unless I do,

Unless I listen and turn to the Light

In such a way

That Shadow is standing

Next to me,

Not behind me,

My Sacred Sister,

Holding my hand.

 

My dear Shadow,

You can never abandon me,

Nor I you.

 

©2018 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Image: pixabay.com

Audio · Original Digital Art · Poem · Poetry

The Poet Dreamer

 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.

 

© September 14, 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard @extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog

Original Digital Art: “The Poet Dreamer” ©Martha Harris  See Martha’s Artistic Flarings@artisticflarings.blog