…..
If I trace a finger
along these shaky strands
can I touch those places
within myself I have not
yet found? If the world is
sound (scream? or sigh?)
can I
hear the rumble of my
own heart, try to tune
its faintest beat, bleat into
this raging sky what I
wish for most, and cannot
see? Can we play cat’s cradle
with this wishing well
net, these dreamy stories
that we cannot yet
tell, this whispered want that
has no wings? And are these
things flesh and blood and bone
or simply small smooth casting
stones in the river rushing past,
these last strings of a song
we long to loose
or some silent noose to hang our
wintered dreams.
…..
For some cool photos and the Native American legend of the Dream Catcher,
visit Poets United.
Somehow this reminded me of walking a labyrinth, which, in a way, is what one does mentally when tracing the lines of a dreamcatcher. Lovely, as always, De.
Beautiful piece, De — as always!
“bleat into
this raging sky what I
wish for most, and cannot
see? ”
Love this…
and this…
“these dreamy stories
that we cannot yet
tell, this whispered want that
has no wings?”
Such a beautiful thought provoking poem, De….always a special love for your words… <3
This has an especially dream-like feel to it – it flows like sweet summer nectar. Yuh-uh-ummy!
“If I trace a finger
along these shaky strands” … Makes me think of stroking someone’s hair. Just beautiful.
I love these two lines considered without the one just after: “can I touch those places
within myself I have not” … Even though I don’t actually have those places within me, can I still touch/have/enliven them? Magic what I do have into what I don’t have?
“net, these dreamy stories” … Love this on its own.
“some silent noose to hang our
wintered dreams” … Beautiful.
I love when you “get” my line breaks.
I love the ending on this one.
Wonderful! Sorry I missed it…yet, so happy I found it
So many wonderful lines…I’d have to copy the whole poem and paste it, lol
Wow, I guess if I had to pick….
“Can we play cat’s cradle
with this wishing well
net, these dreamy stories
that we cannot yet
tell, this whispered want that
has no wings? And are these
things flesh and blood and bone
or simply small smooth casting
stones in the river rushing past,
these last strings of a song
we long to loose
or some silent noose to hang our
wintered dreams.”
Goosebump Good!!!