morethanenoughtruth

I had a dream last night.

When I woke, it stayed behind.

I lay with it, sang with it,

rocked it, ruminated on its truth,

netted in the hammock

of its subtle implication.

It snared me in a knot of gnosis,

knitted stitch by stitch

cast about my eye of mind,

an irony of blinding sight

wanting just to hide from light.

 

I rose and washed and dressed,

reaching for my “qwerty” board,

confident this was a perfect day

to be committing thought to page..

Seat to chair, fingers stroking keys,

shoulders hunched in readiness

for incipient amazements yet a-birth.

I held my breath, and……nothing.

 

Where did it go____the dream?

It was there, floating on my breath,

poised on the sensing lip of mind,

hiding in the hooded shroud of thought.

Mind, that haughty hoary hawk,

perches on her cliff-side aerie,

soft-ruffled in her brittle nest

of straight-line reasoned snips of real,

sure that snatching

this or any meaty fact

will garner all the difference.

 

I lean out, far, far out,

stretching out beyond

the hard cold gravitas of cliff-side stone,

beyond the vacuous emptiness of quest,

stretching ‘til my neck and arm and hand

ache toward abdication to,

the yearning inevitability of,

the glorious finality of…….abstraction.

 

And then……..nothing.

 

But wait!  “Dream” was here.

That sneaky pesky Coyote

has come and been and gone,

He’s left his calling card

tucked into the subtle gap of Niche.

“Just notice,” it instructs, scribed

in crisp self-conscious script.

I turn. I note, and yes.  I see!

The “A-ha!”, the insight,

that lovely glimpse of surety still waits,

sitting silent on the cliff’s hard edge.

Hunched on hairy human haunches,

he has taken up a part of me.

Is that how we benefit from dream?

Have we assigned to Morpheus

The context and content of our ken

but incorporate the distillation

of all that gnarly knowing

into the who and what we be?

 

The dream has drawn for me

a different kind of Dorothee.

I will never yet again

wake to nascent magic morn

without the surly bite of “got it”,

prickling on my tongue,

given and taken on this very day,

etched on marbled stone in poesy,

a tableted memorial to word.

Even should my mind implode,

and neurons, blinded, tangle

in their own dendritic paths,

I will be the who I am this day

until I, laughing, ride the tide,

the surge, the frothy crest,

of the forever-after wave.

 

Tomorrow, first I write; only then

will I wash, having seen what it is

that we, though blind,

shall surely see.

 

-Dorothy Jeanette Martin

                    January 15, 2012