Back to "Verses from Life" Index Back to Main Poetry IndexFOR FREUD, A DREAM
Last night again I dreamed the dream;
Not the same dream, and yet the same.
A different house, a different path --
Different obstacles, another companion,
Yet always the familiar theme.
The family member or the relative
That goes with me along the arduous way,
Through mud or raging waves or clutching vines;
Until at dusk we find the waiting house.
Dark, unlit, mysterious, somber --
Inside, behind the unrailed balcony
One door; one room which surely holds
That for which I came.
I never know how I attain that room;
No stairs, no ladder ever takes me there,
And once inside, no wonderful surprise.
But once I found another woman
Within the room and I was desolate.
And only once there was another floor
Unknown and unsuspected, filled with things --
Furniture and household goods, full of promise,
Lit by a lovely western window.
Now what would Freud have said about this dream?
WALKING THE TRACKS
The rusty tracks stretched on for miles;
The leafed-out summer sunned and dozed.
I walked and walked with balanced step --
A long lost skill recalled as mid-years closed.
But came a time when legs claimed weariness
And spinning head desired no more sun --
And looking forward saw but empty space.
I knew not why this venture had begun.
I slowed my steps and lost my impetus;
My aging body yearned for home and rest.
The surging pain of change and constancy
No longer could be borne by one so tired as I --
I stumbled back and back to find
And hide myself within my insulated nest.
The patterns of nature repeat without end
The circle, the diamond,, the star and the square
Man marvels and wonders but can't comprehend
The omniscient being that willed them there.
The patterns of life repeat without end
The joy and the sorrow, the pleasure and pain;
Man worries and ponders but can't understand
Why one should draw loss, another draw gain.
WAYS AND MEANS
The way to have a roaring fire
Is to lay it and light it --
That's all there's to it.
And I'd like to point out,
At the risk of your ire --
It's not what you do
It's the way that you do it.
The arrow is straight
While the bow is curved;
When bow and arrow mate
The arrow can't be swerved.
The arrow's power is great
And the speed as well, it's true --
But the flight of the arrow is just one proof
Of what a graceful curve can do.
I might desire Heaven;
I could be so inclined
If in celestial cities
Only Humanists I'd find.
From what I hear of Heaven
Such thoughts are soon dismissed;
I fear that lodged in glory
Is every Fundamentalist.