Dreams may express our secret desires.
Those hidden fires
From which many recoil
When awake.
Yet, some partake
And even pour oil
On their dreams.
Their fantasy burns
And turns into reality.
Ere banality returns
And secret shame burns.
Sometimes, in dreams, it seems
To me
That what I feel and see
Is reality.
But, when I awake
I realise my mistake,
And partake in what we designate as reality.
Yet I may dream
And the solid things I feel and see
May merely seem to be
As Poe saw long ago
Caught up in our nightmares
Of what may, or may not occur,
We forget the beautiful sunset
And that the earth in the wood
Smells good when wet.
Living in fear
We fail to hear
When birds sing.
Our spring
Is so brief.
Nightmare’s teeth
Pierce our hearts.
Yet we have art
And nature’s beauty
Ere we depart
Into that sleep
Where we are unaware
Of beauty or nightmare.
I dreamed a dream of delight
On a warm spring night
And when I awoke
My conscience spoke.
It said, “dreams are not crimes,
But when a poet rhymes
In his art
You see his heart”.
As for me
I must practice ambiguity
In my poetry
Lest my art
Reveal my secret heart.
When I go away
Perchance my verse will stay
And some will upbraid me
For my poor poetry
And the crime
Of ambiguous rhyme …
K Morris - Poet 