t r a p
d
o
o
r
t o r p o r
t o r p e d o i n g t h e m i n d
mine
fertile
field field
which one will she find?
w r i t i n g t h r o u g h t h e f o g o f w a r
t h a t r a g e s i n h e r h e a d
f l a t t e n s h e r a n d b a t t e n s h e r
s h e ' s d r a i n e d a n d n e a r l y d e a d
“SHAKE me, SQUEEZE!
WAKE me, PLEASE,”
she cries, “must catch a train!”
the ticket’s lost;
don’t know the cost
of r e - t r a c k i n g her brain....
she's edgily emotive
could there be a loco motive?
good night bowl full of mush
good night old lady whispering hush
there... fore... she sits
drowsily she re-collects
fractured facets of the dream
hoping morning light will stream
to clear her eyes, reveal the prize
that crystallized last night
as she slept the idea crept
and crouched - behind - just out of sight
IF the shaft of sun now streaming
cannot show what’s born of dreaming
what’s the point of sleep at all?
why the torture of blanched blank wall?
are we meant to apprehend
what eludes us ‘round the bend?
perpetual game of cat and mouse?
ideas fat with promise hide under the house........
experiences of childhood
had to be repressed
energy spent to keep them down
is gone, so she's depressed
h o l e y s w i s s c h e e s e
w a s g r a y m a t t e r
f e e l i n g m a d d e r
t h a n t h a n t h e h a t t e r
striving forward all a-slant
aching toward the sun to plant
this fresh idea seeded, deeded in the night
dwindling mental real estate's a fright
who can help this helpless lass
the damsel swoons, she well may pass
drenched with sweat by labor pains
her brow is wet; she grunts and strains
surely an e n d to work so hard,
that it might have killed The Bard,
has a p l a c e; will lend its g r a c e
to us thus plagued and lined of face
could L u m o s i t y.com be answer
to this creeping vengeful cancer
of aging brain from life’s huge dramas;
shrapnel left by ancient traumas
let's scoop her up in tender arms
removing her from further harm
take her to some stout stone table
in oaken glen I think we're able
to scrape out what’s no longer needed,
compost the dross, freshly re-seed it
resurrected mind most welcomed,
come home to her now and stay
the writer writes, having writ,
moves on... into the light of day
ordinary tasks now call her,
cooking, cleaning but feeling taller
she glides and hums, a soft smile thrums
in her heart. she swallows
open mouthed she sings her treasure
remembered dream in metered measure
to be heard and read and savored
perhaps she’ll (later) correct the flavor
or not
still caught
by job descriptions all too varied
w r i t e r isn’t one that tarried
long enough
to make it stick
so onward upward
that’s the trick
