I practice dreams for my poetry
I practice poetry for my dreams
All the digging has left a dreamless cavern and all the green is a wordless wasteland. The departure into the abundance of beauty silenced my yearning
Until the rain came and
My fears broke down in
The hardened soul, pummeled by hours of thunder. I softened into the mud as a seed
To be born again, here.
I am not the same seed as when I left.
I am new.
But rootless and unbound I was blown between houses and homes and expectations and money. Who dreams for money?
Am I a now a soulless Dreamer, bereft of poetry, dying because I’m buying bread.
This won’t suffice.
Adjust the dream, clip your wings so you can be a safe well fed land bird. And write your poetry from the land.
Spend nothing but love.
Learn new languages to prove God is not for one nation.
That towers crumble, always.
Poets May forget their dreams and dreamers may loose their poetry
But remembrance and finding are found in un-bought bread.
I take and eat.
