Perchance to Dream, Again

Perchance to Dream, Again

From the buzz I felt, half-awake,
sipping water mid-night.

To my bones, my joints aching
to move as they did mid-dream.

Goosebumps telling me,
“It’s not over. Go back to sleep.”

Signs I heed, yet traces slip away
as I struggle to grasp them.

I piece together what’s left,
intent on returning to something

already gone, only to find a new tale
in this writer’s reality.

Reena’s Exploration Challenge #137 offers three phrases for inspiration:
     1. Writer’s Platform
     2. Writer’s Cave
     3. Writer’s Reality

Image source: Wikimedia Commons – Starry Night, by Vincent Van Gogh
(edited here)

12 – 8

Another of my haiku has been featured in the current series, Monster, by Freya at Pure Haiku.


demon on the prowl
unguarded moment of sleep
troubling dream begins
Ken Gierke / rivrvlogr 2017

Ken Gierke tells me that his poetry is always evolving..

This haiku kept prowling through my memory – I find it an accurate description of a nightmare but I also find many layers within his words.
This haiku is part of my MONSTER series.

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La Somnambule (Sleep-Walker), by Marc Chagall

silent appeal
draws me into the night
heedless in my vivid blindness


My second response to Jane Dougherty’s Weekly Poetry Challenge #39: Sleep walking, with La Somnambule (Sleep-Walker) painted by Marc Chagall, is a cinquain.
Cinquain ~ a five line poem formatted with:
                  ~ a syllable count of 2-4-6-8-2, or
                  ~ a word count of 1-2-3-4-1
                      with the second & third lines as descriptors,
                      the fourth line an emotion and
                      the fifth line a synonym or reflection of the first line

Image source:

Last Meal

Last Meal

Last Meal

Trixie’s reason for spurning Sir Ian McKellan was simple. They were never meant to be together. She knew he had taken it hard, but this was a little extreme. There he was, flying directly at her in a Sopwith Camel, his machine gun tearing into her zeppelin as she struggled to maintain control.

The blast that followed left her momentarily unconscious, but she recovered and headed into the passengers’ cabin. With whiskers as guidance, Trixie made her way through the smoke-filled gondola of the zeppelin, heading for the galley. If she was going down with the ship, there was no way she would allow all those tins of her favorite food to go to waste.

The blast and inferno overhead had sent the gondola spiraling down, making the trip from the pilothouse to the galley arduous. She padded her way over and around passengers lying prone on the deck. The smoke that stung her eyes, blinding her even to the pockets of flame that grew as she advanced to the stern, made her brilliant white coat of fur nearly invisible. Several times, she found herself on the walls, ceiling, then once again on the floor, as she was hurled about while her flying coffin rolled and pitched in its downward flight.

After what seemed a lifetime – and most probably was for a cat with so few to spare – she reached the galley. The doors stood wide open to the nearly total devastation that greeted her. She brushed against charred cabinets as she frantically searched, and soot rained down on her, consuming her beautiful white coat in blackness. Now that she was black, her only regret was that she would not survive to cross the path of Sir Ian McKellan in retribution.

And then, there they were – tins of her favorite food, blasted open by the heat. As the gondola crashed to the ground, she was content with ending the last of her nine lives having a feast as her last meal.

In her blog Nightmare trip, Jane Dougherty talks about her son’s vivid dream, in which a zeppelin piloted by her cat, Trixie (that’s Trixie in the photo), is shot down by Sir Ian McKellan.  This is the rest of the story.



Where else would you smile at the sight of a mountain meadow,
tumbling, rolling downhill to find yourself on a tropical reef
as you wind through the Chicane in 1963 Watkins Glen,
crossing the line at the bottom of the hill in your soapbox derby car,
your paddle stabbing desperately as the raft crests a wave,
realizing you dropped one pole halfway through the slalom
of revelers in Times Square on New Year’s Eve
just as the ball drops for your winning lottery ticket,
all expenses paid to a mountain meadow far from the madness?

Dream with me, and know.

Image source: ESA/Hubble & NASA (Judy Schmidt) via Astronomy Picture of the Day

Streaming Survival

Streaming Survival

a heron cry in the night
Eyes flutter with REM

early morning glide upstream
to land on a stony bank

flash of silver and a lunge
head raised, meal firmly grasped

beating of wings, lifting
reaching nest in sycamore

greeted by upturned mouths
nourishment shared with young

surveying ground and stream
no sign of predators

gliding downstream
Eyes flutter with REM

What meaning, this dream of flight,
with concern only for my world,
safety of my own?


The five word prompts for The Secret Keeper’s Weekly Writing Prompt #42 are meaning, raise, cry, dream and ground.

Secret Keeper Prompt

Dreaming Trees – Kyrielle Sonnet

During Jane Dougherty’s Poetry Challenge #33: Dreaming Trees someone mentioned a poetry form different from her request for a kyrielle – the kyrielle sonnet, which has 3 quatrains using the same rhyme pattern, plus a non-rhyming couplet using the first and last lines.  I’ve modified my original kyrielle to be a kyrielle sonnet by removing the third verse, while still using all of the prompt words (moonlight, tread, wary, secret and sway) with a minor edit.
Image source: (Moonlit Night, Highway by Isaac Illich Levitan)

Dreaming Trees

I make my way along the lane
Wondering if my thoughts are sane
Why choose this path so late at night
While birches sway in pale moonlight?

With fairy visions in my head
I pass this way, a wary tread
What secrets lie within the night
While birches sway in pale moonlight?

For does this dream, this mystery
Belong to me, or to the trees?
The truth, it seems, eludes my sight
While birches sway in pale moonlight

 I make my way along the lane
While birches sway in pale moonlight