DREAM

*My response to NWCU's current Wednesday Wake-up Call

Freedom is the Night,

and cloaked in stillness,

let Her quiet calm you, Troubled One;

now let Night sing

deep inside your worried mind.

Lay bare your flesh;

She’ll soft caress

life’s purple bruises—

And in the night,

Sweet Baby,

dream

Let Darkness wrap around you,

and you—both sore afraid of the world out there

and the dreams inside yourself—

emerge as if from a cacoon. . .

it’s okay;

Darkness hides you well away

from those who’d but condemn

your intimate discoveries.

With eyes tight closed,

hear music in Night’s breeze—

and dance, for none are watching.

Reach! 

The stars are yours for touching;

let not another dawn find your fears

of both the world out there

and the dreams inside yourself.

So dream, Sweet Baby,

dream,

as Darkness holds you in her spell.

Exhale

and feel your soul kiss Night’s air;

let her carry you from here

in slumber’s sweet, refreshing bliss.

Now sleep, my baby,

sleep. . . 

perchance to dream.

THE LADY OF BLUE GLASS

this is my response to Wednesday's wake-up call at NewWorldCreativeUnion

She stood with arms raised high

In morning’s gentle hue.

Not a ghost in white at night

But midnight’s sable blue.

Her nameless face and faceless name

Gave curiosity’s rise.

Why’d she visit me this day?

Appear before my eyes?

She stood as still as statues will,

A specter thin as glass.

I covered my head, curled up in bed,

Thinking this would pass.

When next I dared to open an eye

And peek at her again,

She stood as silent sentinels do,

Ne’er moved from where she’d been.

What then came forth from trembling lips

Seemed but what a fool will do:

I’d dare not ask her “who?” or “why?”

I babbled out, “You’re blue.”

As sun rose higher in the sky,

And poured its warmth on me,

As sunlight twinkled through her hue,

She told my fate to be.

T’was of the faceless ghost I heard

Her voice inside my head.

T’was not her voice but her sharp words

That filled my heart with dread.

“Tis fool who thinks at night He feasts,

“To think Death has no day,

“Enjoy the last sunshine you'll know:

“I’ve come to claim His prey.”

I rose and crossed the room to touch

The glass-like wraith of blue.

Cold, she was. . .”Unfeeling bitch!”

She chilled me through and through.

“Come what may, you’re His today

“You’ll die a violent death.

“Your nights are ended; days are done;

“Prepare for your last breath!”

I smelled it first, the tell-tale smoke

That wafted to my room.

It grew and spread until was naught

But choking on gray doom.

The flames burst through my bedroom door,

A crackling fiery Hell.

The window beckoned me to come

Ten stories I would fall.

I perched upon the window’s sill

Like some pigeon’s roost.

To burn or jump, no options left.

She moved, and I was pushed. . .

                                    --Monty Wheeler

I give my thanks to those at NWCU
  and Angie for her glass works of art

ALL THE WAY (bit of prose poetry)

My response to NewWorldCreativeUnion's Wednesday Wake-up Call




            They thought me crazy; I’ll show them. 

That stupid shrink in his bright white coat, I told him I was sane as his coat needed color.  They didn’t chase me; they didn’t bother. 

I’ll show them how sane I am.  Laughter. . .perfect music in my soul; a crazed one’s cackle they might say, but this dark night I’ll turn to day.  By the gods, by George and Jim, I’ll not be a one hour whim. 

How cold this night and hard this bench!  And I’m alone in this park’s stench.  Tomorrow, they’ll be everywhere, people in their sad little lives of mockery and fear, but I. . .I will stand—alone—right here.

They’ll all walk by and wonder, “why?”  But not a one will care.  I’ve asked one bite before they tossed their leavings into the grass.  They’d rather throw away their food, as feed one they’d see as not as good.  That’s ok.  Tonight, I will go all the way.

“Do it!” I hear the voices say.  And come what may. . .I will know I didn’t just try. . .I went all the way.

I fetch the can from where I’d hid it.  Stolen from someone’s garage; they should have locked the door.  The cold metal’s sweet to the touch, and soon bright fire will warm my crotch.  The stench of gasoline (It’s only rank to them but sugary—sweet to me.) teases my nose and even my taste buds as I draw a liquid circle around me.  What once was will ever be!  The gods will bow to ME!  I bathe myself in gasoline, find the match—it’s dry and clean. 

I see myself engulfed in red; my heart is thumping in my head; for one brief moment, I’m filled with dread.  My thumbnail sets upon the match, prepares to rake the fiery life from it.  I scream, “By Gods! Go all the way!  Let’s burn this night as bright as day!  Do it!  Do it!  All the way!”

            I feel the thump; the match strikes not.  The burly cop asks, “What’ve you got?”  I’m laying on my circle’s outside and staring at the policeman’s face.

I scream at him.  “Go on!” I yell.  “Let me find my rightful place!”

Now I sit in this Hell’s cell; they say I’m crazy, but I know well it’s them that need the magic spell, for I was one with gods to burn.  If only they would ever learn choice is freedom and freedom rules.  I guess freedom’s not but concept in schools.

                                                            --Monty Wheeler

SANDS OF HEALING (a triolet)

The sand created by God's hand

Holds fast its hidden gift to soothe

Until the paint and prayers demand

The sand created by God's hand

Unleash its force of Nature's land

To heal by ways of Faith and Truth.

The sand created by God's hand

Holds fast its hidden gift to soothe.

                           --Monty Wheeler


Triolet written in response to New World Creative Union's Wednesday Wake-up Call