Dreams Poems
100. Raindrops file like veins down the driver's side window
by Kea Campbell
Raindrops file like veins down the driver’s side window. Thunder booms like a bass drum that rattles lightning from the gloomy clouds. Sirens echo around my head like a song stuck in the back of your mind.
The pavement in front of me is as visible as knowing what tomorrow holds. Hazard lights in every direction, like a Christmas tree set to a rhythmic strobe. A pair of beating reds in front and behind, and I can almost make out the double yellow and white lines. Where am I even going?
Mirrors ripple, leveling the dips in the road, and suddenly, I'm hydroplaning. 65 miles an hour and I'm hydroplaning. The back wheels get tired of being caboose, the front agrees and my car has turned into a hand of a clock, counterclockwise.
Thoughts flood my head, a brainstorm. I wish they taught us this in driver's school. Stupid drivers school. I surf my files of memories as if they hadn’t just sit us in a classroom, daydreaming of their next paycheck.
I blink, and nothing has changed. The air like a maze of droplets, like a skewed version of Dots and Boxes. My car in the same place, sitting sideways. I reach for the door and it's locked. I panic and unlock the car. Silly me. The raindrops hitting my body from all sides except up. Trailing, a me-size hole in the rainfall. I can see everything clearly, like peering through the protective mesh behind your bedroom window.
I blink, and my car glides away, 65 miles an hour, sideways. I glance down at my body, hands open like a landing pad for the downpour; palm-up like and fingers sprawled out like I had just received a pair of my own. I hear a car horn barreling toward me until it becomes one with me.
I blink once more, and I see pitch black. I'm dry. The rain continues and thunder booms a half-second worth of daytime into the sky, into my room. And I'm staring at the ceiling above my bed, in my room.
......
A dream
by Gideon Okari
I once had a dream
of having wings;to fly
and the wise thus came
and to me said
don’t fly too high
or down you’ll come fallin
don’t fly too low
or you’ll be one drenched chicken
So I stood wondering
whose wings would they be
......
Shift
by Margaret Hitch
Another bruise on my knee I don't know where from.
I don’t give it much heed, this body of mine.
And if I could I’d send it out with the dry cleaning
for another body
with different attractions:
A pile of cloth with some thorns in it,
red and gold -
I want to shift out of this face,
the way the other day
......
The Dream Patrol
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
Willie Winkie lived in a land of magic, in the region called Butterfly Haven;
For Willie was a diminutive elf, like the violet blossoms, of purple fixation.
Willie and his beloved wife, Elvira, lived highly organized, pleasant lives;
For magic impels ways and customs to differ, like buds, as spring arrives.
Everyone called Willie Winkie, 'Wee,' since most elves were notably bigger;
But, he was Director of Dreams, scattering joys of plum night, with vigor.
Violence was completely unheard of, inside their peace loving community,
......
Ay Pensé Que Me Amabas
by Hébert Logerie
Ay, pensé que me amabas
Pero no lo hiciste en realidad
Sé a ciencia cierta que amas
Éxito, dinero, mis sueños y propiedad.
Sí, no me amabas
Por la moda reaccionaste
Cuando tú y yo necesitábamos el dinero todopoderoso
¡Oh! Te volviste malvado, chiflado e hinchado.
......
100. Raindrops file like veins down the driver's side window
by Kea Campbell
Raindrops file like veins down the driver’s side window. Thunder booms like a bass drum that rattles lightning from the gloomy clouds. Sirens echo around my head like a song stuck in the back of your mind.
The pavement in front of me is as visible as knowing what tomorrow holds. Hazard lights in every direction, like a Christmas tree set to a rhythmic strobe. A pair of beating reds in front and behind, and I can almost make out the double yellow and white lines. Where am I even going?
Mirrors ripple, leveling the dips in the road, and suddenly, I'm hydroplaning. 65 miles an hour and I'm hydroplaning. The back wheels get tired of being caboose, the front agrees and my car has turned into a hand of a clock, counterclockwise.
Thoughts flood my head, a brainstorm. I wish they taught us this in driver's school. Stupid drivers school. I surf my files of memories as if they hadn’t just sit us in a classroom, daydreaming of their next paycheck.
I blink, and nothing has changed. The air like a maze of droplets, like a skewed version of Dots and Boxes. My car in the same place, sitting sideways. I reach for the door and it's locked. I panic and unlock the car. Silly me. The raindrops hitting my body from all sides except up. Trailing, a me-size hole in the rainfall. I can see everything clearly, like peering through the protective mesh behind your bedroom window.
I blink, and my car glides away, 65 miles an hour, sideways. I glance down at my body, hands open like a landing pad for the downpour; palm-up like and fingers sprawled out like I had just received a pair of my own. I hear a car horn barreling toward me until it becomes one with me.
I blink once more, and I see pitch black. I'm dry. The rain continues and thunder booms a half-second worth of daytime into the sky, into my room. And I'm staring at the ceiling above my bed, in my room.
......
Tooting Her Own Horn
by Evelyn Judy Buehler
Mark Allen was ten years old, and his favorite things were trains;
Like teal moments after the storm, when colorful beauty remains.
Mark had a shiny, toy train set, and he was frequently adding cars;
As people often have dreams of travel, underneath jewelled stars.
Mark's Papa was a train conductor. He loved to manage the train;
And Mark liked to listen for its whistle, while playing in Green Lane.
Dinah was Mark's little sister, and she'd give her toy horn a blast;
......
Mirage
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Slightly beneath heavenly blues,
Forlorn frothy platforms of grey-whiteness,
Creepy and silent,
Renew servile friendship mirrored downwards —
Several thousand feet —
On broken, still waves of used and collected water.
Invisible fumes on black roads melt into heedful grasslands.
Our own worlds
by Jeremy Wheeler
Drifting off to sleep tormented by a looping chorus, are the lyrics correct? I do not know!
When will I achieve REM or is tonight's tumble fest already begun?
Maybe I'll be trapped as the vampire who devours spiders or the frightened man stabbed in the sternum by that flat top screwdriver!
How many spiders must go down before I'm aloud to leave? How many stabbings must I feel before I jolt from this dream?
How many teeth will fall out while I sleep?
Why must I be paralyzed while the black figures creep?
......
My Murder Confession
by Melvyn Kairupan
In a haze, I stumble,
tripping over my own feet,
dragging my breath through a hill drowned in fog.
Cold. Fucking cold.
Solitude chewing through my skin,
biting into my bones.
And then—
you.
......
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myhobby portal (1 poems about Dreams)
My hobbies include, writing poems, watching sports, movies and colleting coins, currency and other collectible items. I do play online games and keep myself abreast of latest news and happenings. -