Winter Dreams by Toca

Like a region wrapped in grief
Temple starlings ruffle in the cool air.
Hands with pennies flatten to see
Lincoln or the wall.  Bright dreams clamor.
Dark dreams dig.
Along the road, bright morning, a skull on a pick-up holds
Roped to the grill a little off-center.
I can’t read to you with this voiceless speech
Tongue-tied dreamer.  The world has varied
And we are its disease.
A Nature Walk…
I have never seen an actual river cut through mountains to reach the sun.  In my mind’s eye, though, I see it.
I have never safely borrowed dreams, but where every word is just that, I cry like a wolf.
Stupendous deeds done by others are riddles on my blank slate.  It never quite washes clean anymore.  It did once.
I rule the rights the government withdraws these bitter nights.  There’s no rule really.  If you are quiet you can hardly hear it.
Disorder only bothers me now.  In trying to paint visions, I didn’t care.
My cats are solemn.  When I painted, they were alive.  Zoe batted a Christmas bow past the turquoise pillow which a Buddhist in my meditator gave me once.  Then Zoe watched and pounced.  Adonai Jai watched from the cat tree.
They are with me.  It was a mistake to stop.  If there are forests on those mountains I would go there.  But they’re rock.
There is a paper dragon in the wardrobe and you are on your own tonight.  The best course is through the woods, the woods continue…
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The Message:  Put your Art first.  Art is your version of God, your Creed.  To say your visions are just a sign of aging is absurd.  I will remake you.  I will make you whole.
A poet said about poetry that it was like our current day’s Creed.  She did not say it was our current God.  She spoke at Christ & St. Luke’s Church in November of 2015.  I can’t find her name right now, but she teaches in a small college.  I think it is in Philadelphia.


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