Archive for dreams

Conception

Posted in health, kids, love, Mental Health, Poetry with tags , , , on October 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Jagged fears stab

The nerves like tiny,

Slivers of glass, shards

Of the shattered crystal peace,

Which came as a wedding gift,

That December.

Its glacial presence,

Its pure, singing, note,

Now fractured and falling,

Wildly refracting spectral colours,

Fleetingly beautiful before it

Hits the ocean below.

Going under, it spins, simultaneously

Melting and drowning,

Disappearing and assimilating,

Its diluting purity poisoning,

The saline sanity of the sea.

Until, gasping for air,

We awake together,

Reverie broken.

Your soft breath soothes me

But the inaudible whisper of another heartbeat

Says something has changed.

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Beat

Posted in death, health, Mental Health, music, Poetry, writing with tags , , on March 12, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Strange
Food brings
Mood swings. He
Could sing
Brooding lullabies but
Her bright eyes
Catch the light like
The glitterball gleaming in
The ceiling of his
Sleep; compressing the chest
Of the restless bass player pacing
The empty stage of
His empty dreams, promising
Oblivion,
That thoughtless dominion
Of the obvious
rhyme.
While unseen drummer summons
The legions of the beat,
Unseen lesions secrete murderous
Chemicals sweet and he
Sleeps with the disco lights on,
Afraid of dancing with the dark.

Flotsam

Posted in Mental Health, philosophy, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on July 20, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Only poorly painted dreams.

Only glass,

Masquerading in a fancy cloth,

As something important.

 

The sea becomes waves,

Turning rocks into sand,

And, returning both to the sea,

Cares nothing for such abstracted finery.

 

A stimulus for childish imagination, yes,

But parents know treasure’s promise,

To be empty,

Its power at its peak when first found.

Whilst ice cream is now,

Its promise instantly fulfilled.

 

They know that imagination will grow,

Into much more than a pile,

Of broken glass discarded,

And that scars on scratched feet will heal.

 

Just as I know my dreams,

Will grow and change,

And live and bring warmth,

Like the silent Gulf Stream.

 

And Shattered pictures shatter nothing real,

And fancy cloths are ten a penny

Nowadays.

 

So if you find a silk handkerchief,

Washed up upon your shore,

Enjoy it, like a child, as something pretty,

But don’t get attached to its alluring metaphor,

It is merely flotsam and you are free.

 

 

What Might Have Been

Posted in Mental Health, philosophy, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on July 20, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

I painted my dreams on slides of glass

And folded them carefully,

In Eastern silk.

I walked West until I walked into the sea.

 

I watched my dreams float away carelessly,

Caught by Atlantic waves,

Washed out silk washed up on sand,

Slides slammed against sharp Solway rocks,

 

 

Smashed to shards like counterfeit diamonds,

Cold, hold, worthless,

Strewn on forlorn foreshore,

To shred the soles of optimistic paddlers.

 

 

(Who rush down to the sand,

At first sign of sunshine.)

 

 

The pieces, which

Were slides, which,

Held dreams, my dreams

 

 

Were gathered reverently then by inquisitive children,

Still believing in their broken beauty.  Eager

To take them home as treasure,

To put them back together,

To see what they become.

 

 

But plans were, too soon, dashed by jaded parents,

And treasure scattered with a heavy heart,

In sandy car park corner forgotten,

Upon fulfilment of ice cream promise.

 

 

So, as darkness fell on an empty beach,

A silk handkerchief was picked up by the rising tide,

And became but silent flotsam,

On the dark and sullen Gulf Stream.

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