by Michael Anthony
I had that dream again
(though now I find I can no longer separate
memory from imagination )
Of course there were waves breaking and birds.
A young girl on a horse.
She had a slip of black hair that fell lazily down her forehead into her eyes.
(The pony had one of his own in white).
The moon, lit only on the bottom,
reflected in the beads of sweat I sip
eagerly from between your breasts
(Yes, there were those too!
I’m naked on the floor again
stuck to the wood and my dreams
It was… that way. I was lost in you and often would remember none of it left only to wonder how I came to where I was; the top half of me off the oversized cushion we used as a bed, (partly under the night stand), your long, brown, body still wound atop mine. Those days I watched the dawn peeking through your hair.
It was a dream, (kept free from the meddling hands of the clock), that taunted us both.
The afternoons we spent lounging in the hammock under the palms: You, talking of plans and a future in places far- off and me of building things I could see.
I was young and thought the two related. That somehow we could mix fairy tales
and concrete and the result would be something to stand on its own. I had an understanding with wood and concrete and how their relationships with each other could be used to make a place to live. On this I could draw, but knew nothing of carving out a life. That knowledge was yours and while I railed at the prospect of being “kept, you wished only to share what you had learned, and earned.
But you knew.
I heard it in the way your voice trailed at the end of another day dream.
I could see it when the stars were gone from your eyes.
I was leaving….
and you knew.
Author's Note: it has been so long... just needed to put pen to paper results be damned.
Posted on 03/07/2018
Copyright © 2021 Michael Anthony
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 03/08/18 at 02:16 PM|
Totally enjoyed this poem about dreams, foreign yet familiar, parallel yet divergent from their dreamers.
|Posted by Glenn Currier on 03/27/18 at 03:03 PM|
Ah! What would we poets do without dreams. I like the way you personify seemingly inanimate objects. What a genius line: "I had an understanding with wood and concrete and how their relationships with each other could be used to make a place to live." Very well done, you captured my imagination, Michael. Thanks.