chasing a dream

As night broke into pieces, I had a beautiful dream,

a thought which fled me like a deer

frightened by the smell and sound of people.

I chased the dream into the woods,

the trees growing thicker and larger

the deeper in I gave chase to the creature

Until the beautiful dream was gone

and I was surrounded by leaves

and tall, scornful grass, and bemused bushes.

My heart grew cold and I shook

as I heard branches crack and the birds

stop chirping as some unknown animal stirred.

A hunter perhaps? I crept slowly back

the way I had come, back to the growing light

of the white and rescuing morning sun.

Back to the start of the chase of the dream,

a dream with features as obscure

and anonymous as any wild deer. 

R. R. Shea

Filling the box

Fragments of thoughts

drifting around inside my head

like sections of newspaper

blowing and scattering and littering

the streets of an empty city

or a city still fast asleep,

not yet touched

by the morning workers

who collect the past

in their garbage trucks

to make things neat and clean

before the next wave

of paper and print.

Salvage some of those papers,

collect them in a wooden box

with a sailing ship

carved on the lid,

the box of hopes

and dreams and remembering,

the treasure chest of the mind,

a collection started and coveted

on the morning of our lives,

curated as time flows forward,

things discarded and then longed for,

things burned away with joy,

memories carefully wrapped

and stored in the bottom

of the box.

Fragments of dreams

- for thoughts and dreams

become one inside

the treasure box -

and fragments of hope

begin to fill up, until

we realize that the only way

to make room for these

drifting remnant pieces

is to throw away

the dirty strips of despair.

And so let us burn these away,

burn the oiled up papers

of our long-ago failures,

of our self-imposed inadequacy

until there is room again

to keep filling our box

of dreams and thoughts.

cycle of the poets

The sun and soft breezes inspire gentle thoughts

and poetic musings for weekend scriveners,

but

              storms and mud and lashing rain

uncover our true humanity and our lives.

Floods and thunder churn up reality,

expose the deep roots of suffering and living,

and drag poetic wanderings back down

into the primeval muck of creation and the life

of this world, the breeding ground where nature

has her dark victory and humanity begins again.

The filth, rushing water, and strife of this life

make artistic fancies gestate once again.

Nothing is unchanged and all things bloom in death.

Struggle conquers daydream, dreams are changed,

But

                               then the clouds pass, the sun returns,

and newly evolved poetic dreams take flight once again in the cycle

of creation, the cycle of the living, the cycle of the poets.

R.R. Shea

This coffee

This coffee tastes like a memory,

sipped and savored as the sun rises

over the eastern morning fog,

sipped in solitude as my family

sleeps and only the birds

and rabbits are awake.

The hot liquid pulls me back

into the body of a young man

who has been entranced by a beautiful woman,

a flowing memory of her eyes as blue

and deep as the sea, eyes dancing

as she laughs at my jokes and drinks.

Now I drink alone this first cup

and her eyes are closed and a smile

still plays across her sleeping face.

She will rise from bed soon and join me

and together we will drink coffee and share

the entire universe without words, only with love.

The whisper of the dramatic

The old masters write that only the most beautiful creatures

tame and shatter our souls, that the smile of a woman can save us

from our own hell or from another's purgatory

and that our world can crumble when our beloved

turns her shoulder or walks away,

and I respect the old masters, except on those occasions

when they are fools, proud idiots, and ignorant magicians.

Our inner selves are far more fragile than the old masters

ever imagined, weak vessels liable to capsize and sink

at a mere memory or a smell in the air that reminds us

of childhood loss or middle aged apathy or elderly boredom.

Our hearts are not glass, but the image of glass, painted

on cracking paper by the maddest of the old masters.

We break not at the dramatic, but at the whisper of the dramatic.

a storm power outage

The late-night storm knocked out the power

and so we lit many candles and huddled

on our couches as the lightning

etched images of uncertain night

into our imaginations.

The flickering of those wax torches

gave the air a feeling of a feast

or a medieval celebration

and our laughter and smiles

came easier to our faces

as we felt invincible and close,

pilgrims having traveled out

of the hectic modern world

of electronics and into

primitive temporary joy.

Sleep, my little one

My little girl, in the darkest hour of the night

I tip-toed into your room again

as you drifted on your sea of dreams

and I watched you sleep

and my heart filled and then

almost burst open.

I wept in silence, my tears

diverted as they fell

by the smile of my

quivering mouth,

joy and sorrow co-mingling

on my tired cheeks.

I thanked you in whispers

and inaudible sentences

for being my daughter,

for existing and bringing

your burning torch into

Plato's cave, taking my hand,

and leading me out.

I begged forgiveness

from your tranquil pose

of peaceful recline,

forgiveness for being an adult

and forgetting sometimes

the important things in life.

Forgive me, my princess,

for trading in giggles

in favor of irony and sarcasm,

of forming impressions

of friends based on how

they make their money

instead of the contents

of their dreams,

for forgetting about

the tremendous magic

of imaginary tea parties.

Sleep, my little one,

and dream and stay a child

as long as you can, and help me

to find the little boy who still

lives deep within me

and wants to come out to play

one last time.

Sleep, and I too will sleep, and we can

dream a single dream.

RR Shea

sand and glass

Human footprints in the sand

perhaps the trail of a woman

who is playing and hiding,

waiting to be found and suppressing

a giggle as her lover follows

the tracks in the sand.

Footprints in the sand as a travesty

or the final clues of a missing child

last seen in swim clothes and

carrying a red beach ball

and frolicking in the waves.

Footprints in the sand as a puzzle,

perhaps tracks observed by tourists

who believed they were alone

at this beachfront villa

and now wonder with whom

they must share their solitude.

Footprints like braille or hieroglyphics,

semiotic injunctions on the empty soul,

messages without grammar but overflowing

with all possible meanings.

And within these footprints exist the seeds of glass,

the raw materials from which

some faceless corporation will build

widows for houses and cars.

The sand will be gathered,

heated, transformed, forever changed,

until the footprints in the sand will become

a window from which future generations

will watch their children play

or their spouses come home from war

or sunsets or approaching storms.

The sand-made-window will offer

more readings and signs,

give more clues and provide

for more things to observe.

But it will also separate people,

throw up a shield between the inside and the out,

which has since sand was first transformed

to glass been the secret agenda

of all our windows.

RR Shea

a change of harvest

As a youth, the ripe red fruit fell

from the trees and the bushes

to my soft-skinned feet

and the cool water flowed

from endless streams.

Honeysuckle perfumed the air

and crickets played symphonies

to send me into nocturnal sleep.

Now youth is gone

and I must scrape

and wrestle my food

from the earth,

cracking knuckles and parched lips

the only interruptions

in the foreboding silence

of our existence.

Listening to the rain

Let's stay in bed

all day and night

and listen to the rain tap out

the confessions of the

restless men and women

in some faraway city,

Raindrops like a telegraph,

hesitating watery caresses

against the window,

a morse code of the cosmos,

let us listen

before we close the curtain

and kiss each other

and laugh and whisper

our own secrets,

drifting into sleep and dreams,

as our sweet nothings

are absorbed by

the passing clouds and fall

as snow in colder lands.

R. R. Shea

two old ropes

Two old ropes, gnarled and caked in mud

tangle around the trunk stump of a dead oak,

each end leading away into the lush grass,

one rope trailing north and the other south,

like a madman's compass,

like branches leading off into confusion,

like broken promises between two lovers.

The buzzards and the birds

of prey fly overhead,

circle, spot a place to land,

then dive to ground, but

– just before their talons dig into the earth -

they swoop off again,

screaming their disapproval.

The sun and the moon stand guard above,

each fighting to abandon post,

obligatory sentinels,

ready to surrender

or wait for the fire

from the lightning strike

to erase this obscene canvas

and bring the great regeneration

of what has been purified.