• Megan Glenn

Dream.



About 12 years ago I started paying attention to my dreams. As far back as I can remember, my dreams have always come to me very intricately. Some of them I would remember when I woke up, some of them I didn’t. But that changed all those years ago when a friend came to live with me between homes. She (like me) dreamt often and had been given the gift to interpret dreams.


Every morning, like a ritual, we would meet in the kitchen as we prepped lunch to discuss our dreams. Again, some I’d remember and some not. UNTIL I had a dream that made me sit straight up in bed in the middle of the night. I could hardly wait until the morning to tell her about it. I KNEW it meant something. **Ask me about it in the comments and I’ll share in another post** After sharing it with her, she explained what it could mean and weeks later, the meaning of the dream came to fruition.


From that day on, I’ve been deeply intrigued by dreams. I’m far from clairvoyant and don’t often trust those who claim to be, but there’s something about the manifestation of dreams that interests me. The connection between our natural discernment (or intuition) and the way our subconscious mind files away peripheral context clues is undeniable.


As a poet, I find that dreams make the best poems. The metaphors, imagery, and personification of inanimate objects are all the qualifiers for complex prose. Below is a poem written like the narration of a dream, but taken from a real life scenario. If you’re into dreams or just into dissecting poetry, research some of the phrases as “dream themes” and see if it reads a bit clearer.


Enjoy.



A trance, a dream

Everything and nothing as it seemed

Meaning was equally ambiguous and obvious

Ominous

Hand to mouth and out were teeth

From you to me and then a speech

Beseeching truth

Tiny ivories from youth spit into clean hands

A green landscape on your side of the fence, but still, an offense


A dream, a trance

Plans to pluck from desert sand, a drought

Until that bout of fear

I could hear the skittering of active arachnids emptying from a crown

Down, creeping from eyes like tears that never fell

A hell of its own

Faceless, unknown characters chase

No escape

Tripping over encounters with candor like hurdles


A trance, a dream

A fall

From a place into grace unfamiliar

A bed of snakes speaking out, how peculiar

But they never shouted ill will

Still art, a painting of wisdom and healing

Feelings, but actions not mutual

A ritual of nudity in each other’s presence

Yet you never dared to bare your thoughts


A dream, a nightmare.


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