The Dreamland Sea
Sleepy baby, sleepy baby...Drift
away with me. I’ll
take you to a place I know, it’s
called the Dreamland Sea. It
lies beyond the moon and stars, among
the silvery skies. A
splendid dream awaits you there, behind
your tired eyes. Sleepy
baby, come with me...We’ll
sail until sunrise.
Just as soon as you’re asleep, we’ll
coast upon the cosmic deep. Gliding
swiftly across stratus sky, under
the mindful stars of Gemini. We’ll
swim against the azure light, laved
in waves of mild night, as
the lingering shades of golden day, are
gently washed away.
Sleepy baby, come
with me...Let’s
wander the starry shores. We’ll
climb the tops of coral trees, and
trade our whispers, with
the breeze. Then,
through the dim and misty haze, we’ll
meet the moon’s beguiling gaze. We’ll
fathom all we can from it, to
realize its nimble wit. The
Dreamland Sea believes in us. And,
so we shall of it. Like
nocturnal, howling beasts, to
the moon we shall submit.
Come, with me... To
the Dreamland Sea. There’s
marvelous things for you to see! Elephants
march the coast, untamed. As
wild as, a lion’s mane, as
graceful as, the hurricanes. The
monarch whale rules the
pelagic plains. Her
sovereign law, falls
like the rain. Fairies
frolic, romp, and play. Whirling,
twirling, and dancing ballet. The
moonlight silvers their tiny wings, faintly
thrumming their slanted strings. Their
shiny quills are heaven’s harp. The
moon plays “Hallelujah”, in
F sharp.
The moonlight meets its fate each night-
atop the Dreamland Sea. The
sea and sky make symphonies, that
play for you, and me. Let
us harken the silent light, to
learn each chord and key. And,
as purple waves break upon the shore, we’ll
memorize the score. Liquescent
notes play from each glint, and
glimmer, when the moonlight
strums the briny billows. Ballads
are made from roaring wind, each
gust is echoed by the willows. And,
as the sodden sand sings the sea to sleep, the
moon herself begins to weep.
The Dreamland Sea is alive, and
well, hallowed be each salty swell. The
sea has reefs, that live like veins. As
the tide breathes, in
and out, the waves all wax and
wane. And,
its cool, misty breath, blows
beneath the winged cranes.
Sleepy baby, come
with me...I’ll
take you to the Dreamland Sea. We’ll
dance with colors of a sleeping sun. Then,
let them go, one-by-one. ‘cause,
these colors are the dawn... You
see? They don’t belong to you, or
me. We must put them back
before we wake, return
them to this ethereal lake... And,
when it’s time to rise again, we’ll
sail home on sunbeams. Yet,
the salty air-will still be there, in
the tinges of our dreams.
The Sparrow
It’s the splendid morning’s glistening light
which makes crystal of fallen dew;
and the dying day’s stunning might
which gives dusk its golden hue.
But it’s the ballad of the faithful sparrow
that makes each day anew;
and you’d rejoice over a sparrow’s hymn,
if you knew what sparrows do...
The sparrow knows that stars are sleepless,
yet shine silently upon you.
She knows her songs make magic real,
So she’ll sing instead of rue.
It’s the tender blackness of the night,
which makes the moon shine bright;
and the reddish bruises of the dawn
that make heaven a fiery sight.
But only the sparrow’s morning psalm
can turn a gory sky to rapture;
and you’d be humbled by its song,
if you could fathom the sparrow’s laughter.
The golden light upon still rivers,
is what makes the herons sway.
It’s what makes the shadows shake and shiver,
and what makes the fairies play.
Yet, only the sparrow’s gentle call,
can summon angels from the sea;
And you’d be knocked down on your knees,
if you could see what the sparrow sees...
The sparrow can see the future…
It features a dying earth.
There is no remedy nor suture,
to restore her home’s true worth.
There is no dew,
nor golden hue;
No moon, nor trees, nor fruit;
She sees the real war within this world
is among the brilliant, and the brutes.
Night
Night is a cruel mistress. Be
it so, she revels deeply within me, sweetly
serenading me with lilts of grace, and
madness. And,
I, so shamed in my daily tides, that
I welcome her again, and again. For,
if it weren’t for her passionate, yet
gentle unrest, I may have never been tamed. And,
if it weren’t for her wild, sometimes
accidental strokes of genius, I
may have never known love.
What am I, that I so love the night? That,
the pale, blue light of the moon, tastes
like water to me; That
the traversing crescents are like
some sweet song to me? The
night is lustful and licentious. A
kindred soul I am to thee. The
stars are just like the brilliant wonder, that
lives in me. And,
I, like the night, also mind the phantoms
that lurk in the shadows, skulking
inside the gape of some undone utopia. And,
when I grow tired, I too cast out my ghosts like
dust, into the wind. And,
I too wait for daybreak to come
sweep them back from
whence they came. It
was Night, who taught me-molded
me
Dawn is always so noiseless. Noiseless,
yet not soundless. The dawn, is
as silent and still as an alp, in
that, I can still hear heaven’s echo, humming
from the enormous, ohming stone. The
morning at least, attempts
discretion. Lo,
it is too bright. Its
gleams tiptoe through
my window, as if, she
knows to not wake me. But,
the dawn is blind. Blind,
yet not unseeing. It
sees with light. Tis’
the eye of the dawn’s own
mind, that designs the Sun... It’s
the night, which can see us with eyes. She
watches me closely, and
bids an enticing notion- Darkness,
but not sleep. Knowledge,
but not peace. Wisdom,
but not rest.
“Take it, or leave it.” Says
the shadowy damsel in distress. I
take it. ‘cause,
I demand to know everything. And,
I don’t want to be alone.
She regales me by song, with
splendid stories of her stars, and
glorious epochs bygone. The
night writes too. So
well, in fact, she’d make you
or I look like a fish trying
to climb a tree.
Night speaks to me, now...
“Confusing, isn’t it? That,
Day and I are the exact same creature, yet
we appear so differently. We
are both all troubled. We
can do nothing, but
rue about the ashes of the
Black Sun, our past self. We
were truly one. But,
befell to riven. Like
a caterpillar, distorted into two butterflies... Which
one of them had really been
the butterfly?” She asks, rhetorically.
Suddenly, her skin begins shed. Thin,
shades of sparkling indigo are steadily
shaved from her body, until
she looks like twilight. She
lays me down in a hurry, kisses
me tenderly upon the eyes, then
escapes, through the ether. She
trades spaces, with the dawn. She
becomes her other self. And,
like a cat, chasing its tail, Day
and Night foolishly continue
its never-ending spectacle. Both
paces are exactly even, for
every step Night takes as a ray of sun, tows
her back unto herself. She
too is the dawn; The sun’s subconscious. Pattern
is her affliction.
Meanwhile, I continue to work and
within the blushing, dawn-lit walls of
my self-taught phrontistery. She
leaves the sparrow with
a psalm to wake me, yet
still I have not slept. It
never dawned on me, that
night was for sleeping. Yet,
this is what the sparrow always sings.