Search

subscribe

The after-taste of a dream

My dreams are poems

Righting themselves upside down

in Not-for-long Ville.

 

Still fresh with relief

when I wake I take a pen

so I may keep them.

 

But the poems fade

faster than the dream even

when I whisper, “Don’t.”

 

What’s left then, but last

night’s dream, which will never be

anything more than

 

 

 

Why Dreamwork? (A Series)

Recently, I wrote a brief personal essay in response to the question, “What is dreamwork?” In this post, I offer you why you might work…

Talking to No One

I am a talker, a writer, a person who externalizes that which is internal. Over the course of my life until now, this has sometimes…

Search

subscribe