Dreams don’t always work the way they play
                        out in their dreaming, not unless I take
                        them at their word, believe in what they say
                        about how I am meant to be awake.
                        Like origami treasures, they unfold
                        into new creases passed from mind to hand
                        to turn into new shapes to have, to hold
                        as long as morning’s memory can stand.
                        For only tongues that are awake can lie.
                        My dreamer dreams the truest truth without
                        her smokey mirrors. My dreamer knows how I
                        can best confound my doubter and her doubt.
                        Dreams don’t work except when I believe
                        in what I let reality conceive.


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2 Responses to Dreams

  1. slpmartin says:

    Really liked the ‘origami treasures’ as a metaphor in the poem.

    • Thank you.

      I don’t do origami, not without someone showing me step by step, even then pretty sloppy. But I have a friend who makes exquisite origami treasures out of dollar bills. I dreamed of him the other night, saw him folding a dollar while he spoke, as he often does do, but thought he was making an origami house, instead was one of his boats, but with the fold he uses for his houses. When I told him about it, he had me show him. When I tried, it seemed to come out all wrong. Then he showed me how to do it as I’d dreamed it – a crease he’d not in fact ever used before – but how to make it something uniquely wonderful. A conversation on believing in dreams ensued. This sonnet emerged from that . . . not unlike how an origami treasure can emerge from any dollar bill.

      Like any metaphor I use, like any origami treasure, like any dream, like any poem – all are meant to reveal something, rather than to hide. For any who know to see or hear or unfold . . .

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