This is a poem for buhdy and all of the other dreamers who have made docudharma a reality.
a poem inside a dream
house moves like sliding
glass doors, recurring twice
a year for years and
then dissolved as the dream
is very becoming towards
reality.
a dream inside a poem
finds itself in a house
full of hidden chambers
doors and hallways
rooms all lit but
shadowy, layers of darkness
flowing across the bare
floors and walls.
the doors inside the poem
lead deeper into the house
down the halls, up the stairs
winding round and round
recurrent themes of dreams
rhythms in no time
leading on to nowhere
shifting gradually.
the darkness inside the space
overwhelming and consuming
clinging cobwebs and dirt
surrounding, dragging you down
escaping only by entering
a cubbyhole in a dark
corner, leading into
the dark passageways.
the glass inside the holes
shifts into skewed planes
dissolving past reflections
till the reality of ever
narrowing walls squeezes
so tight you can barely
believe this turn of events
as you squirm and wriggle
along the seemingly endless tube.
the slot inside the walls
climbing straight up
traversing, always tight
sometimes up-side-down
never ending transitions
clutching at your heart
throbbing
in the blackest night.
the space inside the mind
becomes contracted, compressed
squeezed by outer pressures
clawing at curtains
draped down the tubes
sticky as webs
tangling twisting entrapping
never releasing.
then suddenly, awake
no longer stuck
embracing the calm space
clearly lit and blossoming
forth, radiant beauty
welcoming all being
to this lofty chamber
inside a dream, inside a poem.
9 comments
Skip to comment form
Author
Post your comments in the space below.
that’s quite something… thank you Seattle Mark
That was a neat journey!
I don’t think you wrote the words “spiral” or “spiralling” anywhere there, yet that’s what it felt like before we reached the chamber.
I don’t know how to do pics so I’ll backhoof the stable door.