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.