Bridge in Fog
I have always been fascinated by dreams. Where do they come from? How do they develop? What meaning, if any, do they contain? Not long ago, I took a photograph of the Rip van Winkle bridge disappearing into a fog bank. It occurred to me that a dream is like that; the mind disappears in the mist and shapes and forms get distorted. A dream is a mirror image of reality on some level. My dreams are populated with people I know and on rare occasions, by creatures from the darkest depths of my id. Sometimes I remember them in great detail. More often only an uneasy feeling remains. I don't know how to interpret my dreams and I'm not sure I really want to learn. There are instances when I can connect a dream to some final thought as I drifted off to sleep. But it is the element of surprise that is more intriguing to me! Where did that come from? As disconcerting as they can sometimes be, I know one thing for sure; if I'm still dreaming I'm still alive, and that's a good thing! Here is my Bridge in Fog in 4 parts:
I. Each night we step out on the bridge of our mind.
Our steps are heavy from the weight of the day.
Vignettes of images and sounds;
of things we said or did,
or wished we had or had not.
We drop them like markers as we journey to the other side.
Waking moments as hard as steel.
They propel us to the other side,
and will guide us upon our return.
The bridge is shrouded in fog
and I wonder what awaits me.
II. The bridge spans the waters of my mind.
As I slip away with each step,
one reality ends and another begins.
The fog swirls and lifts and forms are revealed,
both strange and familiar.
What do I see?
What is? What will be?
What is me?
Where the hard truths come to light!
III. On the bridge I'm an observer of me
in a new dimension of self.
I can see and I can feel!
I can fly and sometimes fall!
I search but never find!
I am chased but never caught!
I experience joy and I know terror!
And it all seems so real except...
I never get to the end.
The forms shake me and wake me.
And that makes me sad and sometimes glad.
The bridge, so long in crossing,
where my demons hide,
where my desires thirst,
is recrossed in an instant.
And I am awake in the night.
IV. I live on both sides of the bridge in fog.
And which is more real?
Each time I cross I leave something behind,
where my soul is revealed,
where my mind wanders free.
I am somehow different if ever so slightly.
As I spend my day preparing to cross again.
Late Sunday Afternoon
It is so sad to see a once vibrant and vital building fall into slow decay. I suppose the same could be said of all of us. Like the things we build, time runs short on us all. The historic waterfront of a nearby village is a testament to the limited life spans of all things made of wood and bone. But as the song suggests, what once was dead can live again, just as the twilight of every late Sunday afternoon is followed by a new week.
Shadows cross the street, late Sunday afternoon.
The color of youth fades from us all too soon.
Purposeful life with thoughts he could feel,
now empty rooms paint starting to peel.
Kid in the street, now an old man in despair.
We turn away as if he's not there.
Sun sets on an old building in need of repair.
Lock the place down, take our business elsewhere.
Cracks in the brick, weeds climb up the wall.
Crowds in the street now hard to recall.
Echoes of silence in the afternoon sun.
An overwhelming sadness for what he once was.
Just bittersweet memories from a life now retired.
Tears of loneliness once the laughter expired.
Living for the moment, now living in the past.
Late Sunday afternoon of his life at long last.
Could there be life after death for this building of yore?
A timeless beauty without age no youth could ignore.
A restoration for which no coat of paint can supply.
Look to the forgotten past for a future blue sky.
Wisdom and knowledge this weathered frame does conceal.
Compassion with interest will soon serve to reveal.
Listen to the old man play his signature tune.
Come back to what was on a late Sunday afternoon.
Be Like A Tree
Be like a tree, she said to me
and keep me always in your shade.
Spread your roots wide beneath us
and hold me firm to the home we have made.
Sow your seeds to the moist morning weeds
and bear fruit for us both to savor.
Offer sun and rain as the saplings soon feed
and shower them with leaves of your favor.
Reach for the sky as your branches grow high
and experience all that life has to offer.
Lend support as we climb and try to decide
on the bounty of nature you will proffer.
Protect us from the storm as we rise and take form,
through each passing season we grow.
Soon spring will reprieve what autumn must leave,
your life's legacy we are sure to know.
Winter's Dawn
It was Thanksgiving 2014. An early season snow storm covered the landscape during the night. Despite the fact that we were entertaining friends and family that day, I woke early, grabbed my camera and headed out into the cool dawn. The world was silent and beautiful!
Giving thanks on this day,
in the still purple light.
A cold November dawn,
early blanket of snow.
Young tree before me,
once green with new life.
Early morning light,
now covered in ice.
I find in the view,
a season now past.
So quiet the snow,
in ice covered life.
From the moment it clicks,
a new day is dawning.
The seasons are changing,
a reason to give thanks.
Photographed on Thanksgiving Day
Night Train Coming
The dark sky is bright as I approach the midnight,
the distant light just a shimmer.
I wrestle vivid dreams only to choke back silent screams,
the rail of my past grows ever dimmer.
Parallel lies on the twin tracks of our lives,
the silver rails still shine.
Far round the bend waits the future we portend,
the distant engines whine.
Night train coming, I hit the ground running;
all my planning has brought me here.
Too terrible to contemplate, I can only anticipate
what the blinding light will make clear.
Long before it's seen the gleaming engine screams;
never quite what you expected.
The approach ever slow as the trees begin to glow;
my scarlet hopes soon deflected.
It's suddenly here the hard steel breathing fear;
the dim cast now blinding bright.
No longer concealed my track now revealed,
I step off into the light.
