The folks at
have a cool prompt today:
What did you do with your dreams this week? Was it difficult to translate your dreams into poetry? Were you surprised by what you came up with? Shocked? Frightened? Delighted?
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They have a warm and welcoming spirit that extends to those of us non-poets who occasionally write a poem-like phrase and who have respect and affection for poets. Like me!
I'm going to jump in and participate in today's prompt with a new dream, , Funeral Food, posted yesterday at False Dawn and an old dream, The August Dream, posted on this blog in, well, August (fancy that).
These don't quite fit the prompt, in that they are simply a transcription of the dream or twilight experience itself with no translation into poetry. "Funeral Food" was surprising in two ways: it was lovely to wake up tasting warm peach pie, but I got a psychic whiplash when my sister wrote to advise that someone did die in Mississippi — not actually one of my mother's relatives, but the wife of her first husband. Strange, anyway. "The August Dream" was bizarre, but delightful. Reading back over it today, it still has the feel of one of those iconic dreams that has messages and layers of meaning, a field day for you know who.
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