Dream Woman and The Jackal

‘Rainy Night’

It had been raining
(Summer has been eclipsed
By rain and storm
This year,
And May,
Whose glorious sunlight
So allures us,
Is wearing
April’s mask
Of tears
And smiles).”
 –Victor Hugo
I. Dream Woman
Dream Woman
Sits outside
In the cool air
In Her chair
She looks comfortable
A warm wrap
Around Her legs
From where She sits
The Ocean is visible
The waves
In the distance
Not quite clear
I don’t even hear them
Perhaps Her hearing
Is better than mine
Dream Woman sits and reads.
I walk alone near the ocean.
Her greeting is warm
And we talk of books.
Spring arrives on the land
As we speak softly
Dream Woman says
She has a book
To return to me
I don’t remember
Giving it to Her
Still I trust Her memory
More than my own
What then of the book?
I wish I knew
Which book
She meant.
She says
I lent it to her
But did I really?
I would like to ask Her
If this is Her dream
Or mine
But I know
She would say
It’s a shared dream
Dream Woman
Has been in my dreams
For all my life
Why have I not noticed
Her presence
Until this last year?
Has old age
Wakened  me more
To Her presence?
She seems to be waiting
Her patience
Seems endless
Her eyes eternal
Her voice gentle
Yet Her words
Move me
With their Strength
And Wisdom
I feel so foolish
Yet She is always kind
Treating me
As an equal
Like a friend
Or a brother
Yet somehow
Even closer
It feels Like
She has
Known me.
It seems
Like our hearts
Are beating as one.
How is this possible?
Sometimes I wonder
Who She really is
But somehow I know
She would laugh
If I asked Her.
And Stranger still
I Know
That I too
Would laugh
When I wonder
Why do I not see Her
When I awaken
I hear Her voice
Telling me
That waking life
Is really the dream
And Dreams
The truer reality
Another oddity:
I have always
Believed this
To be true.
That Dreams
Have seemed to me
Than waking life
Why do I
Doubt this?
Why do I
Trust the illusions
That make up
Our everyday lives?
When I ask Her
About this
She only laughs
And again
I laugh with her too.
Dream Woman
Tells me
She likes how
I make Her laugh.
Fool that I am,
I guess that’s
What I do well
II.  The Jackal
“How does it feel
to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees
with your blue fingers.
And when you
open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light
falls to the floor
and burns a hole
through it.”
— Ai Ogawa
The Jackal really has no friends
For death has no friends
But death knows us all
Knows where we live
Perversions of the soul
Waiting for death
Corpses floating
Demonic howls
Waiting to kill
Fated dark moons
And Jackal kills
Kills to live
Like all of us
He has to eat
Sated on corpses
That float face down
Covered in Death
Consumed in Death
The rivers of blood
Shadows of blood
Painting progress
Searing Spirits
Falling forlorn
Seeking Death
In Darkness
Stretched and broken
Reeking of decay
And Darkness
Straying betraying
Cadaverous flesh
In Darkness
And Death
Gray eyes
Reflected shadows
Soulless bodies
All of us
Jackal’s Prey
Jackal sated
Does not sleep
No life is safe
In the dark
March 2010

Life is the Dream

‘Mourning White’ – yamabuki

Oh Sweet Nightingale
So beautiful is your sacrifice
To pierce your heart
On the Rose’s Thorn

Dream woman and I were caught
They painted us White
They brought us to the top
And left us there, for what?

Alexander McQueen’s mother died
It was more than he could take
For she was his beloved mother
He hanged himself
The day of her funeral

Everything has been painted White
What are they trying to do?
The Chinese wear White clothes
When they go to funerals

The Nightingale died
Singing her song to the rose
Her gift was as beautiful
As the red rose that grew
From her heart’s blood

McQueen’s shade is with us still
I’ve seen it in the wind and rain
Moaning with despair and hurt
Have you heard him crying too?

Dream woman sent me to explore
She asked me to seek out and find
Why everything is painted white
Everyone I see is in funeral white

McQueen’s shade
Is a shadow in the night
Drifting like a leaf in the wind
Why is he still hanging around
What still holds him here?

The Nightingale loved her life
She loved to sing in the night
Her song is so heartful
Did you love her too?

The Doors are white
The Walls are white
The People are white
Everything is white

McQueen’s shade is dark
Lost in the night
What is he seeking
Why can’t he leave
Have you seen him too?

The Nightingale
Wants to share her song
She loves us all with her beauty
Have you heard her singing
Carried by the evening breezes?

The whole world has turned White
Even my blood is white
All the colors have been lost
What vision is this Whiteness?

Can you feel McQueen’s agony
His soul’s deep wounds
He bled to give us his art
His blood colors our clothes

The Nightingale has died too
The rose she nourished was spurned
Was her sacrifice wasted,
A foolish loss of life?

Even the Music is white
The Sky is white
The Earth is white
Everything is white

McQueen! let go of darkness
Listen to your inner music
Look for the passage way
Find your way to the light

The Nightingale bled for us too
Her heart’s blood flowed for us
She too died for her art
Her blood changed to a red rose

Here in this White dream
McQueen’s clothes are white
The Nightingale’s song is white
Even the darkness is white

Please McQueen
Please Nightingale
Return to the world of Spirit
You don’t belong
In this world of white

But send us new dreams
Dreams with songs and art
Filled with bright colors
To bring us back to life

March 2010

Coroner: McQueen took drugs before his suicide
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
(04-28) 06:34 PDT LONDON, United Kingdom (AP) —

A British coroner has ruled the death of Alexander McQueen was a suicide, and said the designer hanged himself after taking cocaine, sleeping pills and tranquilizers.

Coroner Paul Knapman said Wednesday that McQueen was under pressure from work, “had a history of self-harm and, no doubt fueled by cocaine, he resorted to desperate measures to end his life.”

The inquest was told the designer was also “overwhelmed with grief” at his mother’s death days before.

McQueen’s psychiatrist Dr. Stephen Pereira told the coroner’s court the designer was diagnosed with mixed anxiety and depressive disorder. He says McQueen had attempted suicide twice before.

The 40-year-old’s body was found in his London apartment on Feb. 11.

If I Dream About You

Comme dans les étangs assoupis sous les bois,
Dans plus d’une àme on voit deux choses à la fois:
Le ciel, –qui teint les eaux à peine remuées
Avec tous ses rayons et toutes ses nuées,
Et la vase,–fond morne, affreux, somber et dormant,
Où des reptiles noirs fourmillent vaguement.

In souls, as in pools slumbering beneath trees,
Often there are two things a viewer sees:
The heavens—coloring the tranquil flow
With all their cloudiness and all their glow—
And mud—dank, dismal, sluggish, dark and deep,
Where dingy reptiles indistinctly creep.
— Victor Hugo


If I Dream about you
Will you know it?
If you answer is “no”
Then you deny your Soul

“Why is this” you ask?
“How am I to know
If you Dream about me?
It seems impossible”

The Web of life
Makes it so;
Not just possible
But inevitable

Dreams are
The language,
The Nature
Of our Soul

The Flesh and Blood
Food and drink
Source and Sea
Of our Soul

Joining us together
Where our Souls meet.
They’re as vital to our life
As what we drink and eat


“Who are we then
Behind these masks”
Are you sure
You really want to know?

And Air
And Dogs
And Bogs
And Flowers
And Men
Life and
The heights
And depths
Of being
Every one
A step
On the path
Of Dreams


Last night
I Dreamed
I met a woman
That I’ve only met
In Dreams

I told her that
I had never met her
In waking life
Yet felt that
I knew her

She replied
“That’s because
We have met
In Dreams
That’s how
We know each other”

“Will I remember you
When I meet you?”
I wondered.

“But we have
Already met”
She replied

“But will we dare
To admit we have
Already met”

“Will we know
How to cross
The lines
That deny
Our having met?”

“When our eyes meet
Soul to soul,
We will know”

“It’s the same as
Falling in Love.
You, know!”

“You may deny it,
Yet always,
Deep inside,
You, know”
Said my Soul

March 2010

Raging lamp light

Fire Arcing
Sliding apart
Red lipped flowers
With smoking stems
Sinking deeper
Into the night

Darkness again
Weeping stars
And clouds
Raging lamp light
Punctuated with candles
That wobble and sigh

Will you hold my hand
Touch my lips
Move your hips

Can you feel
The dark moments
Candied sweetness
Rolling between us

Knife sharp intensity
Cutting the line
Between us
That keeps us

This is no love poem
Full of hearts and flowers
Our joining

Broken despairing cries
Littered lives
And blood
Blood from me
Blood from you
Blood from all of us

And yet we live
Living in pain
But still we live

We carry on
Half broken
We continue

You say
“The Buddha
Never mentioned this”

That must have been
A more advanced teaching
Taught in next years class

But now
It’s too late
The words
Have already

But at least
When you come
To this lesson
You’ll be prepared
To give a knowing smile
When the other students
Look perplexed
In Disbelief

March 2010

Down the Rabbit Hole, Again?

Tammy Ho’s Post
(No longer there)
“White Stone:
The Alice Poems”
Takes us
Down the Rabbit hole
And gives us a glimpse of
Stephanie Bolster’s 
award-winning collection 
of Alice-inspired poems
As well as Tammy’s impressions
Of this book of Poetry.

I in turn was inspired
To comment on Tammy’s post

We’ve all read Alice countless times
So down the rabbit’s hole we’ll go
Reading them is so sublime
Never these stories will we outgrow

The Caucus race
Old Bill’s Face
The sleepy dormouse
The Dutchess’ house

Tweedle Dum
And Tweedle Dee
The Cheshire cat
Humpty Dumpty

On and on
goes the list
you know them all
We can’t resist

We may all be Mad
You may contend
But Our love for Alice
Will never end

March 2010

But it did not end there
I felt that while relevant
My poem did not address
Tammy’s post directly

Still it’s hard to comment
on fragments of poems
so instead I choose 
To address the proliferation
of writing adding to
The Alice genre.

This is my resulting poem:

Poems and stories after Alice chase
Like comments we may leave on Blogs
They do have too their rightful place
Where we can now all be embraced
And no longer feel like pointless cogs

Like History’s stories Multiplying
We see their many points of view
And this to Alice we’re applying
Until it becomes an endless slog
That finally leaves us feeling blue

So now we need a critic’s brand
To guide us through this comment land
Making sure that posts get scanned
And spammers all are rightly banned
To find for us what’s right and true

March 2010

To be honest I still feel 
That I have not quite 
got it right
In what I wish to say

Perhaps it’s Alice
And her merry crew
That makes my words
all go astray


Moonlit breathe

Moon Goddess
Almost hidden
In early morning
Almost awake
I had just wakened
From a dream of flying
Where a woman
Shared an onion
Of exquisite taste
Breathing out
My breath
A misty
A Sensual Smoke
A Moonlit Mystery
Cold breath
Dreaming vapors
Steaming from my mouth
Slipping away
In the darkness
Earlier I had dreamed
Of a sly trickster
Who shuffled fate’s cards
Gambling playfully
With other people’s lives
Now my breath steaming
I prayed to the moon
Offering her tobacco
To ease our Pain
And light our way

March 2010

Life’s Purpose

I’ve heard that in some tribal cultures
There will come a wise person
To speak to the soul
Of the child in the womb

The child is asked
Why it has chosen to take birth
What is its reason
For coming into this world

Sometimes this is all
Other times further dialog ensues
Concerning the reasons and rhymes
Of this new life coming towards birth

Years later when the child
Is starting to understand life
The wise person approaches the child
And begins a dialog

Or more accurately
Returns to the dialog
That started when the child
Was still in the womb

This was not done for me
Probably it was not done for you
Still something in us longs to know
Why we are here

What gives meaning to our life
Why keep going
And many more
Good questions all.

I believe that the answers
Always lie within
There are different ways
Of finding why we are here

Meditation quiets the mind
But it can also help find answers
Dreams too
Can aid our search

Standing on a bridge
Waiting to jump
Looking for answers
This is the knife’s edge way

Cutting through
To the center
Going to the heart
To see who you really are

Now look to see if you can
Look even deeper
There is always more
Wisdom within us all

March 2010