Saturday, May 25, 2013


The bag of dreams has fallen into day,
with tightly knotted mouth and swollen shape,
as if to tease the memories of night
and mock the truth of what we call agape.
It is as if time gathered shreds of thought,
and dropped them into flimsy sacks,
full-blown, and bloated within mind,
released by sleep; adulterated facts.
In trying to sift through the scattered forms,
a search for meaning silently arrayed,
there is within the action deep desire,
that purpose and some reason are displayed.
Confusion has a coy and ancient face,
as if the dark had birthed some alien child,
and in the bright becoming, all erased;
narcoleptic journeys - hope defiled.


  1. oy, not sure i want those dreams...not the ones that breed confusion...and defile interesting rhythm to this one roslyn

  2. Such a well-written sonnet (I think) with excellent rhyme and meter. And that feeling so well captured. I had one of those days in which a muddle of dreams hung with me!

  3. They are mysteries perpetuate send us off seeking the answers. But there is little hope in knowing them at least until we can dream again.
    The ominous tone to your piece has me thinking I want to avoid sleeping for a while.

  4. I'm particularly fond of the line about confusion in this poem...coy, ancient, alien descriptive and telling...