Tag Archives: dreams


I can see it.

Can you  not?

This brightness and white-hot light?

Can you not smell

the fire-scent of rebirth?


Darkness follows,

cool, soothing darkness,

a balm to all of my wounds.


You can just barely sense the arrival of the new self,

the air tingling with discovery.


My back rests on cold, polished stone

as I reach my hands to part the velvet,

but nothing,

thick and musty nothingness

meets my arms and face.


In the distance I hear music;

soft, slow music.

Words of twisted lament

speak of ultimate sadnesses.

But I am new and have not yet been filled,

so I drink the emotion and revel in feeling anew,


All that I know is of sadness.

It is filling and complete.

My eyes see dancing,

the music leaps in the darkness.


I awake to vague impressions,

a desire for sadness.

Apr 5, 1996


cracked sky – revisit

I gaze upon the painted sky; it cracks.

I press against the hoar-rimed horizon,

so cold and biting. I strain to see through

but am allowed only a furtive glance;

a peek at another world. Mystery

and shadow – I see my dreams through the crack.


I flatten myself against the dome and

struggle to slip through the hole in time, o’er

gossamer borders spun ‘twixt life and dream

as the icy kiss of the bounding wall

warns of edges sharp from fractures honed,

cold claws that reach and rend my mortal flesh.


Through action wary, misplaced though it be

I fail to mark the cruel blade sliding

into my belly, piercing through my ribs,

until the point rests just within my heart.

my lifeblood’s warmth over my body spills,

a mask to the glass bite raw, elation.


Into my mind through mist of shock-numbed pain,

disbelief of thought, “What has just occurred?

what trick of dream-disguisèd sense is this?”

Though to the earth I drop in pain of wound

aknee across confines of worlds apart

I fall owned, part of each, by neither claimed.


My form just short of dreams cast down, I hear

the serenity songs through branch of tree

and peace of moon called forth, “come now to us”

Sweet voices of a thousand birds cry out,

Come fly with us, through mystery unveiled,

panoply vista of sight enchanted.”


I make to lift my breaking style, weak now

through loss of blood I retch in painful breath.

from just below my chest strikes out cruel blade

nearly hilts-deep into my belly thrust .

Upon the pommel resting light – a hand,

the trembling mother of this grievous pain.


The very form of grace and beauty warm,

How I long to stroke this exquisite hand

To touch and to be touched upon the face,

please let the caress come to end this pain.

Violent sobbing jarring my bladed chest,

through agony forceful, my tears are dried.


White Runners _ 1

Joah crested another hill, his feet crunching the fallen leaves – dried husks of burgundy and gold.  There was a scent to the air here, Joah felt more than smelled it – a thick patch of must.  He paused atop the hill, panting to allow his old lungs to catch their breath.

To his left, at the bottom of a small gully, Joah saw a massive slab of rock.  The boulder was moist, caked with fresh brown soil.  Up the slope to the rear of the gully was cut a fresh track of destruction from the wake of the stone’s tumultuous descent to the valley floor.  The source of the trail was lost to a curve in the hills.

Joah made his way carefully down the slope to the monolith.  He tested each step with his staff.  The tempestuous summer had left many loose stones uncovered from tremor or flood.  Joah had no intention of adding his name to the list of those who had fallen to their death from misplaced trust in old paths.

As he approached, Joah found that the stone was far larger than it had appeared.  The oblong behemoth was roughly three times Joah’s height, and half as thick.  During the fall, one end of the massive white stone had cracked off, revealing a deep blue-black slate beneath.  The severed portion had landed flat side up just beyond the stone itself.  A ray of sunlight decorated the rough surface, immaculate as the altar of any village chapel.  The fractured blacked surface was like a rough sea, frozen mid-storm.

As if  compelled by the rays of sun, Joah turned his gaze to trace the path of the stone’s descent.  He was blinded by the early morning sun as it leapt from behind low clouds, bath the stone in a blaze of fire.   He fell to his knees in rapture at the base of the stone.  Surely this was a sign from God, this was the place to be prepared.

For a long time Joah remained kneeling reverently at the altar, lost in prayers of thanksgiving.  Finally, as he started to rise, his ancient knees failed him.  Joah shot out his hand reflexively to steady his fall.  His palm slid across the edge of the altar.  The flesh was shorn nearly to the bone on the razor edge of the flint.  Joah clutched the wounded hand to his chest, watching as the blood seeped into the white shell of the altar.  The blood that spilled onto the black face of the altar was lost, its deep color a perfect match for the dark luster of the cloven stone.  This was not a frozen sea, but rather a churning roil of frozen blood.

Joah pressed a broad plantain leaf to his wound and bound it clumsily with a rage from his pack.  Swooning, he turned back to the source of the ravine.  The sun had been masked again with cloud, and no longer dazzled the eye.  Now he could see that the rim of the surrounding hill had fallen.  A shear crown as tall as a man wound around the rim of the gully.  At the head of the scree pile gaped a deep blackness – a dark portal beneath the hills.

As carefully as he could, Joah picked his way through the loose dirt and small stone up to the cave entrance.  The long walk from the village, the spiritual discovery, and the loss of blood had taken a toll.  A wave of nausea overtook him, just shy of the cavern’s mouth.  The world spun in his eyes, and Joah collapsed, his wounded hand reaching out to the darkness.


And long before the end of the council

he stood before them all,

lost in the eternal darkness

that swallowed the faces of his judges.

He stood alone,

nearly naked,

his skin covered by tattoo.

He stood to prove himself.

his skin tanned brown between the ink,

for he was of the Earth,

a child of his Eternal Mother,


they called him,

and he did not move,

but remained still

and quiet,

judging his judges

with the fire behind his eyes.



Poem in a Bowl

Have you,

can you


moonbeams on silken,


gossamer webs

of cat-spiders

against a midnight-blue

ghost of a sky

chasing the white queen,

the moon?


Can you soar

upon the back

of warm,


metallic dragons,

shimmering gold

and silver lighting

the line tree-tops

reaching up

from acres of

wood below

as to tickle

your feet?


Have you ever

had your heart broken,

rent apart

onto the rough floor

of reality

by a father,

by your mother?


Have you seen your

old friends’ dreams

playing like old


films onto the

white lace of your lover’s

wedding dress?


Can you feel the burden

of a gray,

rainy sky

pushing darkness

onto your back

in an attempt to force

the air from your lungs?


Can you see your life

echoed in nature

in a spider

or a wave upon the beach

or the rock it attacks?


Can you think,

tell yourself words

to stir you to tears,

to fill your heart with passion


as fiercely as the sun?


Can you tell me

these things,

make me understand,

place your thoughts

into the fertile ground

of a vivid imagination?


Can you honestly tell me

and tell me you have lived,

that you understand?

For my brother

September 7, 1995

Water (recast)

Oh what an overcast morn! And oh how

it causes my heart to bleed out as I

watch a black bird float alone in the sky

ever so slowly on currents of air.

Yearning to cry out in warning of mind,

“swiftly take flight, o spirit befeathered

fly ‘pon the wind ‘cross the dome of the sky,

take leave of this place, of this most ruinous life.”


I utter no sound, and not even a

thought do I spare from my mind, but instead

hold guarded my tongue, e’en as this black beast

holds my eye with its own, catching my mind

and locking my soul in a battle most

desperate, trapped in a struggle between

the gaze of beast and loss of the real.

And as he flies off, I sink to the ground. Broken.

The Legend of the Brother Sword

A shadow falls across the hall,

backlighting themes aligning into strange patterns.

The forest floor echoes those whispers,

two brothers alone together,

power and strength as a completed team,

shadow and panther.

The dim light of a flame

flickers in the eyes of the one,

the other trained on the back of his brother,

respect and fear mingle together,

blend with determined grit.

The goal is godhood,

the price – a life.



Spring Sun Rising

The spring sun is rising

and close behind comes the heat of his cousin,

the hot warmth of the summer blaze,

the promise of the thaw,

the desire for dark things forbidden,

changed through absence from light and sharing

to a burning hunger for dirt,

of lust and a watery hope.

The night falls late now,

storms call through dreams

quenching the earth of her thirst,

yet ignoring the forbidden desires of man.

The dawn brings the light

the torturous light of movement,

heating and loosing those plans,

the half-whispered thoughts

of the heart.




The stage looms,

dark and sweaty,

the dust in the air.

I am announced,

as is my act,

chosen for me –

it is something I cannot do.

I speak to the crowd,

fifty or so,

dispersed among the many rows of seats,

faces that look at me with recognition,

yet for me they are strangers.

I deny my role as viewee

and return,


to the crowd of viewers.

I cannot get comfortable.

(untitled) – Cracked Sky

I watch the sky crack.

The horizon is painted glass,

and it cracks.

I press against the glass.

It is cold,

frigid and biting.

It is so cold.

I strain to see through,

but all my excitement allows is a furtive glance,

a peek at another world,

a world of mystery and shadow.

Through the crack I see my dreams,

those who painted the dome surrounding this world,

the dome that serves as a border between the two.

I flatten myself against the glass

and struggle to slip through the hole,

through time and into another world.

The icy presence of the painted wall

reminds me to watch the sharp edges.

I must not be cut.

It is perhaps because of this caution,

misplaced though it is,

that I fail to see the long,

sharp blade

as it slides into my belly,

and up through my ribs

until the point rests just within my heart.

At first,

the mists of shock numb the pain.

“What has just happened?”

The words form in my mind

as my warm lifeblood spills over my body.

The feeling is elation.

I no longer feel the bite of the cold touch

of glass.

Yet with time,

the seriousness of my wound becomes evident.

The pain drops me to my knees,

I fall,

kneeling in both worlds,

a part of each,

and neither.

I fall within arms’ reach of my dreams.

The world of mystery calls to me,

its trees singing of serenity

and peace.

The moon cries in my pain.

“come to us,”

sing the sweet voices of a thousand birds,

“come and fly with us.

we will show you wonders,


This is your world.”

Yet the loss of blood is too much.

All I can do is retch.

Even breathing is deathly painful.

I look at my chest,

and see the blade is still there.

From out of my belly

comes the last inch of a cruel blade.

I follow it to the hilt,

and behold the pained that pained me so grievously.

The hand is beauty,

exquisitely soft

and warm.

I long to hold it,

to feel it on my face.

It could end the pain.

Please let it end the pain.

But the hand trembles,

violent sobs jarring the blade in my chest,

and my tears dry in the force of the pain.

For days,

it seems,

I rest here.

A wound that cannot heal,

complicated by the blade within,

barbed and poisoned.

It writhes within me,

and I cannot heal.

And yet the pain is a comfort,

an irony I do not comprehend.

Perhaps it is madness,

from the strain.

Eden at my fingertips,

and my blood on the ground.

My emotion overwhelms

and I remember that I live.

The pain reminds me of life.


like the Cyclops

(for he was granted the knowledge of future,

albeit the knowledge of his own death,

in exchange for his eye,

a cruel trick of the fates),

like the Cyclops I see my own future,

my reward for the pain.

Yet this too is the sight of my death,

a sight I do not wish to see,

but my eyes can not close to the vision.

I am one with that image.

I see the knife withdraw,

only in the vision,

I remember,

even as my fingers probe the wound),

I see the blade slide out,

pulled by the same hand that had there thrust it.

It is rent from my chest,

one swift motion.

Yet the blade was barbed

and so with it comes my heart,



“Please let it live,”

OI cry in my mind.

This pain is unbearable,

Yet I cannot escape consciousness.

This pain is too great.

The wound reopens.

I bleed a painful bleed,

each drop striking nerves.

My God,

can I stand this pain?

And then the blade is gone,

the trembling hand of beauty,

the cruel twisted blade,

all gone from my sight.

My heart lay at my knees.

I collapse beside it.

I collapse into the world of dreams.

Yet that was a vision.

I snap to the present,

to the trembling blade,

to the pain,

and I am somehow gladdened.

Here I watch that world of shadow,

watch it grow

even as it drinks from the fount

of my blood.

And from it grows flowers,

singing in the sunlight,

calling to bees,

“come and taste,

come and take our gifts.”

Here I see the sky,

I see angelic forms dancing,

master of the air,

they giggle as the soar.

And I watch the hand,

I wish to caress it,

to love it,

to follow it back to the body,

to find the face of beauty

I know rests just out of sight,

watching me with distant eyes,

eyes that see only magic,

crying, laughing eyes,

eyes that can trap.

I long to hear that voice,

the melody of that voice

and the dancing waves of accent,

its laughter and song.,

I dream of those ears,

of their understanding,

of the desire to hear my prattling.

And so,

the pain is a comfort.

The pain has become my desire,

an excuse to rest in both worlds,

a bridge between the two.

I have fallen for this hand

and I hope to keep it near,

both for my passionate longing,

and for the fear of its withdrawal.

I fear the pain IO know will come,

yet even for that,

I wish to stay

and slowly work free this blade,

perhaps I will heal?

I see the magic of that world,

and I speak of it to the hand

(for I know the ears are listening),

and I speak of my world,

of the stars that rise so that I might tell a tale,

as a connect the dots drawing,

they lay as pieces of the epic.

“See, there is Anaeolbeth,

the star of the lovers.

See as she rises,

she will catch her love Corant

just as the first rays of the sun strike the heavens.

They will fade together,

only to run again tomorrow.”

I speak of the mountains,

distant and grand,

towering over the world.

They watch everything and hold council,

slow and ancient,

council for centuries.

The mountains are full,

the bestow their love on me,

jewels and ore.

These mountains whisper my name,

low and rumbling.

They laugh in the storms.

I speak to my companion,

I hope against hope for the unthinkable.

I hope against hope to hold this hand,

and to walk in that world,

to see those wonders,

and feel the winds,

to become a part of those legends told in the stars.

I plead with the hand,

and I hear a reply/

I rise from my knees,

oblivious to pain.

I rise form my knees at that voice,

and smile at the heavens.

Yet the words are not what I imagined,

and their meaning sinks slowly into my mind.

I listen and hear,

not understanding.


I fall to my knees.

My head swims in the pain.

The words drain my strength,

and annihilate hope.

The answer echoes in my mind,

the answer to my plea.

“come with me,”

I begged.

The answer breaks my mind.

“I cannot.

Please understand.

I cannot.”

November 12, 1997

Mick On Everything

Just a regular guy who is interested in everything

Wherever you go, there you are.

And here I am, Judith Clarke, writer.


Turning Tears & Laughter into Words

A Word From The Raven's Beak

Or whatever I came up with whilst eating cereal this morning

t h i n g s + f l e s h

lyrical essays on songwriting + other mysteries

Syl65's Blog

Poetry, creative writing and a desire to inspire..... Isaiah 40: 31 But they who wait upon the Lord will get new strength. They will rise up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired. They will walk and not become weak..

Words are mighty

poems, and poems again

Itty Bitty Journeys

Epic Tales of Tiny Adventures


literary fictions, flashes, fiascos

All That I Love

Because Writing Is Therapy

poetry by skull

The Musings of N. E. Skull


The heart has to be able to act against itself. (m.m.)

A Holistic Journey

Finding my way back out of motherhood -- while mothering

Experimental Fiction

"Come with me, and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination" Willy Wonka, 1971

Just breathe.

Life is beautiful. And there is so much to be grateful for.

Nathan Blixt

Art, Text, Code, Design