Mattie's Pillow

Dreams

Take an image from a dream. Write concrete details of the image-the sound of the dog’s bark, the color of the shirt he wore, the taste of ice cream. Use the five senses. Don’t explain the dream.

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Here’s a response by Glow:

Goddess Herself
rose above the belly of the land
arms outstretched
hands big like gourds
last year’s cornstalks
sheathing her flanks
silver frizzled her hair
the air buzzed with August
the flatness of the land
curved up at the edges
the woods ringing around the open fields.

The Moon is Bowled,
She said.
The Moon is Bold,
I understood.
And so the land was named.

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Here’s one of mine:

Insomnia

The pillow has heard it all: the litany
of undone things. The horses stamp
the barn at night; each thump of hoof
against board accuses. Not nearly enough hay,
they tell me, and where’s all the green stuff?
Snow fills their paddock to their knees.
And what about my words to you?
Should I have said “íf” instead of “when;” what then?
The darkness spreads full and warm. Blankets
tangle. The cat pats my cheek with her untrimmed
paw. Should I change the litter box now?
Call a long-lost friend?

The horses set out across the land,
looking for the barn they deserve, red paint
and all. A stream flows year round, its
banks curve, green plush, to the clear
water. There are other horses,
none with shaggy coats or dirt-packed
hooves. The cat wants to be in the dream. She
perches her wiry self on the black mare’s
back and weaves, tail spiraling for balance
as they gallop off. You rise, say, “I’m
going with them.” “Fine,” I say.

My eyes blink; blink propagates blink.
I sweep the blankets across my shoulders
like some Versace robe, a gown of sleep.

Tags: dreams, poetry, Psyche, writing, writing prompt

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