Tricks of the mind

Often, drifting on the edge of sleep, or
wakefulness, I am visited by ghosts.
Diaphanous images floating across memory,
lost to the passage of years, but now found.
As after a rain, a desert springs to life,
there grow long dormant seeds, friends and
lovers, words and deeds, sorrow and gladness,
pain and pleasure, all the dichotomies
of life resolved to join together again.
I find them a reassuring comfort, they are
glimpses at treasures buried by the mind’s
age, cloistered in a monks habit, hooded
by the cloth of years, gliding for an encounter
to shine their life’s lantern light upon my path,
for a moment pushing back gathering darkness,
then fading toward a sunset, into forgotten time.

©2013, Donald Harbour

Are we truly awake

how does anyone know
they are truly awake
is it physical awareness
the sensation of being
is life a reality or
a temporal construct
a cloning of vision
thrust into the open mouth
of a screaming newborn
are we part of a cosmic grid
life forces harvested
sucked from our bodies
existing as food for Death
giving indifferent satisfaction
somewhere between awakening
and sleep lies the truth
that one infinitesimal moment
when dreaming a breath or
actually taking one
pulls us into this world
yanking us from oblivion
some never wake-up to life
in that deep forever sleep
will we dream we are awake
or be satisfied to sleep
nestled in the arms of eternity
sleep is a necessary inconvenience
my slumbering self yells
pounding on the door of dawn
I thrive for morning wakefulness
treasuring the early hours
thankful that I have survived
to enjoy one more day in this
marvelous fantastic dreamland life.

©2012, Donald Harbour

In dreams of thee

Edgar Allan Poe

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed,
Upon the quiet mountain top.
For her the fair and debonair,
For her this rhyme is penned.
And in thine eye a kindling light,
The agate lamp within thy hand.
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
The night, though clear, shall frown.
Than that colder, lowly light,
When the hours flew brightly by,
Than to love and be loved by me.
And thus the words were spoken,
By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think,
How often we forget all time, when lone,
In dreams of thee; and therein knows
A soul that knew it well.
Only this, and nothing more.

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This form of poetry is called a Cento. It uses lines from poems by another poet, in this case Edgar Allan Poe, to create a poem. I do hope that he will forgive me and take back the raven now perched above the chamber door. The following is a list of the Poe poems as the lines were used from first to last “In dreams of thee.”

Al Aaraaf
The Sleeper
Lenor
A Valentine
Song
To Helen
Serenade
Spirit of the dead
Evening Star
Hymn
Annabel Lee
The Bridal Ballad
To Marie Louise (Shew)
Stanzas
To One Departed
The Happiest Day
The Raven

**************************************************

Pounding on the door of dawn

Morpheus, Phantasos and Iris, by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, 1811 God of dreams

how does one know
they are truly awake
is it physical awareness
the sensation of being
is life a reality or
a temporal construct
a cloning of vision
thrust into the open mouth
of a screaming newborn
are we part of a Matrix
life forces harvested
sucked from our bodies
existing for an alien
indifferent satisfaction
somewhere between awakening
and sleep lies the truth
that one infinitesimal moment
when dreaming a breath or
actually taking one
pulls us into this world
yanking us from oblivion
some never wake-up to life
in that deep forever sleep
will we dream we are awake
or be satisfied to sleep
in the arms of eternity
my encapsulated self yells
pounding on the door of dawn
I thrive for morning wakefulness
treasuring the early hours
thankful that I have survived
to enjoy one more day in this
marvelous fantastic life.

©2011  Donald Harbour