an homage to Poe and Bill W
I.
Hear the Siren moon of dreams –
Flirtatious dreams!
She summons invocation: just a nip,
A gentle sipping of escape.
How she sings the songs of respite
In the milky sky of night!
She croons her lullabies that mock
The pounding of the chronos clock,
How she cradles – entices and implores:
Release day’s filthy remnants
In the cooling stream, the healing balm
Of expansive kairos dream.
Soft suggestions, safe surrenders in the cotton
of the crib, the slipping, gently sliding,
simply gliding into sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep,
sleep, sleep, sleep –
To the exponential promise of the
Somewhere else of sleep.
II.
Imbibe the golden buzzing dreams–
Intoxicating dreams!
What a fragrant almost flagrant fire of desire!
In the primal beat of drums,
In the nascent glint of midges in the lusty summer air.
What a joy to wake with serendipitous surprises
In the lifeblood of the dream.
How it teases!
How it pleases!
How it eases all the edges
of the humdrum of the day.
With the golden trancing, fugue-like dancing
Of the drums, drums, drums.
Of the drums, drums, drums, drums,
Drums, drums, drums –
Of the thrumming and the drumming
Of the dreaming of the drums.
III.
Fight the fierce betrayal of the dreams.
Enslaving dreams!
Illusion’s edges slouching,
Crawling and deceiving,
The Penelopian unweaving
Of the real that never was.
From the twisted shackles of the sheets,
A voyeur peering through the wreckage,
At the life that’s living elsewhere,
Out there and beyond!
How the fevered craving swells,
Still the zealous dream compels!
How it ego-strokes and yells–
Descend, descend, descend,
Descend, descend–
Rank with the rapacious denizens of hell!
IV.
Die a soulful death in the sinning of the dream!
Murderous dream!
Splayed – prostrated on the craggy pallet–
The Promethean ripping of the liver
By the teeth of demons gleaming
For the promised daily feeding.
Escape the coiling noose
Of the soiled and sweaty sheet!
Awaken and break loose!
Elsewhere life is thriving,
The clanging clock is shrieking,
Jangling out the hours
Of the living that was lost.
Wake, wake, wake, wake–
Wake, wake, wake, wake
Hear the desperate call to wake
from the numbing dream of death.
—
Amanda Miller has been a faculty advisor for the Hedge Apple for 16 years. She loves showcasing emerging writers and artists. Her writing genres have a wide range, from horror to children’s books, from fiction to poetry, including everything in between. “I most appreciate authentic pieces that have a living heartbeat, pieces that sound urgent, like one specific voice whispering in my ear in a way that no other voice could.” You can find out more about her at www.amandahartmiller.com