THRU THE LOOKING-GLASS

Some Sunday Evening
When the sky is still half blue
And magic is oh so present in the scented breeze,
The mind may take pause from the conventions
of the weekday world,
Take pause from its frenzied hiding,
Peek from behind the metal barricade of
“No, no. No time for that now.”
And dream the impossible, unforgettable dream
That brings man above the machines, into humanity;
Above the burdened beasts — into gods.
Then, tell me your dream, and I’ll tell you mine
(Quickly now, before they’re jackrabbit scared beyond recall — such
fragile things are dreams).
It starts on a pure-white, fine-grained beach,
silhouetting a wide teal,
eternal, crystal sea.
A blazing blue and yellow sun-rayed sky overhead,
and sparkling sea shells beneath your feet.
And the sea breeze and lapping waves make the only
sounds (noisy traffic, heated pavement, not
even a memory. It was really such a bad joke.)
There’s a girl: long silken hair of sunlight,
long supple limbs of grace.
And a boy
Both clear-eyed, strong-lunged and alive.
See them play.
Air, Earth, Fire, Water
Then transformed above the clouds
In the knowledge of universes
“Here we are to meet our makers”
— among them ourselves.
Roll call of the gods and goddesses
up for reassignment or rest and recuperation
among the stars.
I dreamed I was on Earth and saw a thing called war
(shudders) — a psychic trauma
to be overcome.
So let us play in our past
and watch the field unfold
Tanks and Generals and Implements of Destruction
“Why, they’re only paper cards.”
Pawn to Queen Bishop Three
And check; and mate.
Such silly games we find to play.
I’d rather make love with you.
Slippery union by the seashore
And close your eyes as we make love
amongst the galaxies.
Let me feel you; let me be you.
Your skin merging with mine
So soft and warm,
ah, sensation . . .
floating higher and higher
and higher — beyond all time or dimension
You know, it’s all one —
The rest is a game
A cosmic joke.
“Hear the gods laugh”
You laugh — delightful.
And now we rest on the beach
under the bright, warm sun
floating through black eternity
amongst the pinbright stars
4th of July sparklers
or Christmas tree lights
Softly floating down and down and
The holiday is over.
As Sunday night turns to Monday morning and
we don our masks and securely hide our dreams,
til it’s as if they were never seen,
tightly behind their barricades
and a muffled “mornin'”
is all we’ll allow in greeting,
eyes shielded, limbs confined,
back into our workaday existence,
reading the war news
fighting our own private wars with the
infernal traffic.
The dense fog descends to hide the sky and sun.
The water’s polluted,
The sidewalks encrusted in broken glass.
And, I’d tell you my dream, if you’d tell me yours,
But —
“Don’t be ridiculous,
We haven’t time for dreams.”
.
.
.
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