Poetry Everyday of the Year (and more)

The rules are simple. 1) Send me a poem and if I approve it (most likely) I will print it. I will also print my poems (which are copyrighted.) 2) If I print your poem you will retain all rights to the poem. I will also delete your poem if you sell it to a publisher who wants exclusive rights. 3) If I print your poem, I will send you an email telling you what day. (So you can tell everyone). This is a poet friendly site. (enjoy)

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Dreams, Undead, Fire

It happens on the day you wake up,
when the dream you held tight like a warm blanket, fuzzy
slips from your fingers, replaced by the cold wind
of the morning, slapping against your skin,
hey, face me you coward - it yells -
in tones of harsh bluster, face me damn you
pick up your head and face me.

When the wind dies, later
and you reach your car and put it into drive
the echo of her eyes lances into what is left
of the spark you once had. There in that moment
something is remembered, that tree you wanted to climb
or that girl you wanted to date, silly isn’t it after all
these years to think about your goal to visit all fifty states
and the desire to feel a peyote sunrise.

The alchemist in you has boiled experiences down
into the raw Archetypal elements,
the girl was just about sex
the tree was just to feel high
one state is much like another from the highway
and drugs just mess with your mind.
It should be enough to have figured things out,
to have bottled experience away,
now you live in the vicarious realm -
It must be the stories of others,
you know the ones where they do the crazy things
and you are safe, laughing at the kitchen table.
But this is the day that you have woken up,
this is the day the dream stays fuzzy by your side
the blanket you have stolen back from the wind
when you grabbed its hand - faced it and said
enough is enough.
It is the echo of your eyes that burns forth
igniting the soul, and she laughs,
because she is your muse and that is what they do.

©Frank Coughlin May 2011