I woke up on my side.
I was surprised, for in the dream
my arms were stretched out,
air cushion tactile
against my hands and upper arms,
its shifting pressure confirmation
that I was flying,
exhilaration coursing through my core and limbs
while bluff and cove passed swiftly underneath,
such a glad respite
from the sharp stoned path
I woke up languid,
lay there happy, in no hurry,
letting my dream body
have the time
to settle back in.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 5, 2015
The large stone head moved its
gaping eyes and mouth and sang,
“I’m so sad, I’m so sad,”
while oceans of sorrow washed
over me, through me
I cried for the lost boy
who went down, so rapidly,
into the clear blue water,
faster than I could dive after —
another one gone —
“I’m so sad,” sang his remaining brothers
(he hadn’t been the first)
I woke up remembering
the story pieces that had tried
to weave themselves into me
as I tried to escape them in sleep —
kept me awake trying to catch me
while I tried to sink away
into the precise colors of winter grasses
and windswept trees
I woke again, and saw
my mind had solved it:
I told myself a sad story, that’s all.
Told myself a sad story, and believed it.
That’s all, nothing I need to fix,
nothing that my earnest living
won’t put right.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 27, 2015
I give thanks
for the layers of dawning,
after dream,
in which the worry lifts, the nagging
sense of needing, somehow,
to confront the problem.
Even quite some time after
I’m well awake, another wave
will wash me — wave of relief —
for there is nothing
I need to do to solve this.
I let myself forget —
It’s easy, really,
as the dimensions of the day
crowd out the linear projections
that scratched at my perception
through the night.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 17, 2014
The urge for hibernation,
held, till now, at bay
by so many color saturated
delightful days
receives a strong inducement
from the sudden cold —
seeping through the weave of clothing,
tightening my skin —
and the soft contrast
of the heated house,
and the early dark outside
Why not succumb
to the rumbling and rolling
sweeping world of dream
as folded and layered as covers
above sleep’s turnings,
wild as any autumn cold snap,
enticing as the blankets’ cave
of inner warmth.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 12, 2014
Behind my closed eyes
images form on black,
an illustration for the music —
big wheel rolling, big cogs turning
I wonder about light in dreams,
how it comes in, at what point
my mind decides it sees,
and when and how the vibrant colors
tune themselves into being
I’ve been journeying again —
errant socks lost
in the picking up to move —
some caravan, its character
mostly unremembered,
The trundling of the dream
interrupted
and so quickly left behind
with the dawn.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 9, 2014
In the dream
the dance was close to flying —
hand in hand catapulting each other up
all the way to the ceiling
In the night I was held
in the deep space of
All is Well
and nothing could impinge
upon my peace
And in the morning
it was still true:
No inky image wants
to remain at dawn —
No one wants to wake up
as the bad guy.
Even the big scary hulks
whose job it is to shout and shout
and make me feel beleaguered
Even they just want to curl up
and be cuddled. There’s no reason anyone
needs to accept a role that doesn’t suit them.
They will all, with great relief
take off their masks
and smile.
©Wendy Mulhern
October 28, 2014
Tonight the crickets’ chorus
sets an undulating braid,
The sound of fireworks punches through it —
staccato pops and cracks, keening whistles —
I’m not sure what they’re celebrating.
Tomorrow I go home
I dreamt of writing
in a pre-poem nap
but when I woke up
it was gone
There’s nothing in my sun-soaked head
but sleep.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 30, 2014
rain falling like grace
falling grace
the rain can’t fall from —
as every drop falls,
grace is what stays
soft melting edges —
somewhere, the will disappears
and the form begins to meld
with what it’s pressed up against,
yielding, yielding itself —
a bleeding from form
of its essence
till form dissolves
while the essence now flows
with new purpose
and insistence
down the next fall line
into the next crack
onward with ever-seeking
curiosity
into the next adventure.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 23, 2014
Every living thing —
any given one —
can be a spark —
They need no pedigree
to qualify
Any light
can lift you from the dark —
you need no name
to call it by
The images of dream may leave their mark,
smudging out the brightness of your day,
may tell you there’s no reason to embark
on what will likely hold
no goodness for you anyway
And when your own ignition
seems completely spent,
your shiny hope beclouded,
your intentions bent,
You needn’t go back under
to see where they went
for any living thing
can bring you out.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 22, 2014
Light dances in memory —
Images form from ripples
Under closed eyes
Scenes resolve, dissolve
All the harvest of the day’s sights
jostle and arrange themselves,
parade
brightly down the path
that leads to dream,
weavings of pictures
forming themselves into story,
crafting a narrative
for the ambient sounds
There is joy in this,
Joy in the surfeit of beauty
that springs from each frame
of my eyes —
Everything, all day long,
So rich to look on,
Plenty to pour through my vision,
enchanting me
all through the night.
©Wendy Mulhern
July 18, 2014