And the word is...

That sounds like an good word, Fire: TIME

Echoes From the Edge: Memorabilia

These are Shadows of Things That Have Been.
They may not be altered in any way.
They flicker through his mind like old home movies:
Images of a boy whose father didn’t love him.
Of a boy robbed of his childhood.
Of a boy forced to become to become a man
Long before puberty set in.
Of a young man mocked by his peers—
Because he believed differently—
Or, because, being poor, he could not afford the comforts they enjoyed.
Of a young man working hard
To provide for his growing family—
To have the Apple of Success dangled before him—
(Just an bite)—
Then cruelly snatched away again.
Betrayed at last by his own flesh and blood—
Betrayed in the end by his own mind.
Of a lonely man, rejected by those he had aided—
Abandoned by those he had grown to love—
Forgotten by those who called him “Friend.”
Turn the projector off, please, Sir!
Finis.

D.L. Harris
© 7/26/96

Sorry. All Echoes From the Edge are a bit sad... but this one shows the effects of time writing on and in flesh...

Between the argentine veil of night's dark rainbow
And the slow seduction of the sun to another day,
I walk in half-light and joy at the shameless serenade.
There is no fear—though we are cause—no hesitation in those
Strong voices saying, " I am here...I am here." The moon
Is a Chinese lantern in the mist, a dull ball of papier-mâché
Caught high in a tree, a bees nest, a picnic plate —
No longer midnight's shining lake — a day old toy balloon.
Here I sit half blind, it is a time to listen, I surmise,
To the wisdom of this place. After all, I am just a visitor,
The noisy man who comes with his dog and sometimes cat
Making the wrens and sparrows chatter (I hope they will forgive me that).
And I wait, a pensive lover, searcher, forever restless inquisitor,
For morning’s gentle fingers to come and touch my eyes.


© October 2007

Just thought to post here in poetry games and contest as suggested by ampoule.

Time
Time, it never turns back,
waits for no one,
aging every existence,
sheds no tears on whatever fallen with it,
carries on and on...
creating pages in the history.
We now and then flip those pages to recall
where we once lived there before...

Yesterdays, series of moments spent,
only are written on diaries,
capturing old memories
where we recall
our heroic acts, our cowardliness,
tears we cried, pains we suffered,
faces we met, faces we lost,
moments of bliss, and unforgettable memories.

Tomorrows, hidden faces of uncertainties,
they will present themselves with the time,
maybe with surprising appearances
or maybe reverberating warning bells
or maybe with shocking facts.
Our human existence, powerless on controlling time,
can only surrender to the time and circumstances...

Yesterdays are gone,
today, we are living,
and tomorrows are yet unseen.
Slowly, tomorrows will become today...
Today will turn yesterday...
Live as if tomorrow never exists
and live just for today !

Soft at first,
the dream hidden
within the moonlit window
and the sound of waves breaking
just beyond our breathing. I am wrapped
in the fragrance of your hair, and your motion
balanced on my finger tips, your lips,
and how your tongue is speaking silently
to mine in the language of temperature
rising in the exotic décor,
the gauzing of the world beyond the bed netting.

One pool of vision, dream and knowing,
abandoning everything to space without time,
our skins shedding the resistance of sin,
one pulse, one touch, the arch of desire,
your hair, the rainbow’s edge pressing into earth
the gravity that pulls me into you,
the wetness of flesh like the hot moist air
before the lightning strikes and thunder drowns us
in a storm that seems to have no end.

Now we ask from somewhere, is this a dream?
Now we wait for the storm to begin again,
as I tread the green water of your eyes
watching me as the waves subside
and recede from the arms of the shore,
my fingers slippery on the memory of you,
the need of you, even as I am waking.

Dreams like this leave me floating...somewhere...and I don't even try to hold on. After just returning from such an exotic place, I can still see and hear the waves and I am intoxicated by the whole of it. I imagine the goddess Pele, lying somewhere smiling as the molten red flows. You have described it all so perfectly.



Shall this be our new word everyone? DREAMS

What is the value of my dream to you?
Will you measure in time or effort,
is it worth the ink and paper to print them- no.
And I won’t cast my pearls before the swine

I carry my dream like a secret-
tight in my white knuckled fist
shoved deep into my pocket
and held there stiff armed.

What precious things as these are there?
These simple treasures hidden away,
Only to be spoken and then scattered -
like chaff in the wind.

The secret dream spoken is
no longer hidden safe.
It is carried away
on a whimsy-

No longer hidden but floating on air
like dandelion seed carried to the ends
Where it blossoms
And grows

It is such a paradox
Dieing in the clutch of safety ,
yet blooming when strewn to the wind.
Lost only to be gained

Dreams

I wish my daydreams could be my night dreams,
for they are filled with vivid direction and shown
on an ivory ceiling speckled with afternoon light,
and the images remain, even as I close my eyes,
taking your hands and placing them around me.

.

A man can enter a dream,
where his steps are silent
and something real walks
with him into the dream,
the way clouds collide
in the clear brightness of a sky.

A man can love in a dream,
where his kiss makes no sound,
but something real is heard
and rises in his blood like a sigh,
as we hear the hissing of a wind
that never moves the leaves.

A man touches in a dream,
where the heart has placed its strings,
the ones you feel beneath the movement
of my hands reaching for you like music,
as you watch the sky turn from blue
to the milky edge of a universe on fire.

A Little Too Real

It was all so awfully real.
I dreamed that I was lost upon the downs,
And all around me in the fog
I could hear the fiendish voices howling:
“Cold be hand and heart and bone,
And cold be sleep under stone:”
To my horror,
I began to relive the details
Pertaining to the death of someone else.
Screaming in terror, I jerked awake
To find big drops of icy sweat
Rolling down my face…

DL Harris
© 3/15/99

Published in The Minis Tirith Evening Star by The American Tolkien Society

...beautiful poems i have read and beautiful dreams i have seen...here is a dream of mine

a dream lived
somewhere by the fluid flowing river
beyond the reeds and rocks
lies a dwelling of serenity

intoxicated with sweet tempered breeze
held in a place there beyond
between the seams and sky

translated for me
waiting to reside
a final destination
this very special place

basket, book and blanket
tucked firmly in place
holding recollections in tiny bits of being

forbidden and unreliable
to all who else appear
a net of hope and reason
stand firm and held steadfast

this place is mine alone
where music sings
and harmony floats
fixed on the curve of quarter moons

sitting on this blanket
that holds the warmth of fire
when cool cold ignites
i dream freely confident of tomorrow

Father comes home,
sits in a dark sound,
with brown glass —
we swallow
for different reasons.

In school, birds are not
taught. At church,
watching the basket pass;
in the window
men are climbing,
dropping pigeon babies
from gutters.

Father comes home.
Supper stares at me.
Darkness falls, brown
glass does not break…

sleep has wing sounds
follows the tolling bell


— January, 2005

Dreamer Unawakened

The dreams I had sailed on silken seas
Pitch-black but dotted with points of fire,
Into realms built of imagination and fantasy—
Warmed by the sunlight of my heart’s desire.

The dreams I had floated over far distant lands,
And they carried me away for the ride.
I left part of my soul on the beach’s white sand,
And part on the ledges of a granite mountainside.

The dreams I had whispered to me in the still of the Night,
Of secrets undiscovered and treasures yet unknown.
That someday I would waken and everything would be right,
I’d find someplace I could call mine and mine alone.

People may say you cannot live inside of your dreams:
What if my dreams are what are living inside of me?

Dale Harris
© 10/25/07

Very nice Pen. I always enjoy the images your poems evoke. I do think our dreams are living inside of us.

I think 'dreams' has been our most popular word to write about so far. Let's continue for awhile and see if any others would like to share a poem about

Dreams

I agree about dreams. We all have them and they are an excellent subject matter for poetry.

Besides sometimes it is difficult to get someone who wil listen to your dreams and other times they are just too strange to put into words.

When this thread started It made me think of that Melissa Etheridge song, "Baby You Can Sleep While I Drive" and the line, I'll buy you glasses in Texas, a hat from New Orleans, and in the morning you can tell me your dreams."

I think it is a very intimate expression to relay our dreams to someone.

In short, On with DREAMS

How about an original song...

The Guitar Player

People out there in the city
So busy, all hurrying, scurrying by—
The Guitar Player sits by the wall with his Gibson,
And he sings of his dreams…

Sometimes maybe there’s someone
Who is kind for a moment of time—
Stops in their busy rush hours of the evening
Listens to the words that he sings…

And he can carry them far on an ocean of sound,
Make the darkness vanish awhile as the notes all resound;
Promises ring in the words of the music that somewhere rest can be found—
Somewhere on dream painted song…

Sometimes the words are dark
And people pause at the tone of his music—
Pain unrestrained finds a foothold and gains
Freedom for a moment in time…

He sings about home and of family,
With a longing that cuts your lifeblood—
Though your tears you drop your donation in his guitar case,
Heading home to call and check up on mom…

No one knows the man or his story,
How he came to be here in this place by the road—
Anyone who will take the time to stop and listen a moment,
Will never think the same way again…

Dale Harris
© 10/26/07