Monday Morning Musings:
“Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.”
–Langston Hughes, “Dreams”
“I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams Amelia—dreams and false alarms”
–Joni Mitchell, “Amelia (1976)
“Hope lies in dreams, in imagination and in the courage of those who dare to make dreams into reality.”
Once my older daughter and I dreamed the same dream
in morning light, over breakfast plates
we discussed the dream, the hopes that wait
inside of you
to come at night, and go in day,
but I no longer remember what was said
the images now gone, the message, too,
there might have been a flute, or a dancer, perhaps
and I don’t know how it happened,
how our thoughts entwined or over lapsed,
but we share a common dream with many
a dream of justice for all, and ordinary,
for broken-wings that cannot fly
to soar on golden wings high into the sky.
I think of this in the fluster and bluster of the holiday season,
with thoughts that come without reason,
come now in moments of calm and comfort,
hot onion soup and warm spiced wine,
breaks for dreams and flights of fancy, transport
from tedium of work, of this and that, and revisions,
and I look down at my lap, try to imagine
the dreams of my cat, of his visions
wonder if there’s hope
or images of what has been.
In the fluster and bluster of the holiday season,
I see a glorious sunset,
visible above the suburban mall,
crowning it, a coronet
of orange and red, streaked with clouds of ash-grey
pausing before I look away
to start my car
but making note of it in my mind,
nature’s art, unsigned
because it’s cold, and I’m tired
and I so I don’t linger or stay.
On my car radio, I hear John Glenn has died,
a true hero, a man with dreams,
who worked to make them come true,
but still seemed humble,
even as he soared, appreciating the sun rising and setting
but never forgetting,
truth and facts matter, too.
I think of watching space missions
on school TVs perched up high on wheeled carts
we never questioned the conditions, the positions,
life took place in black and white then
over and over, again and again,
Us and Them
Cold War and the Iron Curtain,
the phrase, the image
both terrified and perplexed me,
rather than strong and powerful,
existence seemed strained and uncertain.
But that was then,
now the images are colored,
but fear and ignorance is unfurled,
black and white, some still view our world,
see iron curtains, want iron walls.
False prophets and false alarms.
I refuse to accept this new normal,
where two plus two equals whatever is
Tweeted and Re-Tweeted
till many believe what never was, is.
I read of heroes,
and I know resistance is not futile
and I will not go gently,
will listen intently,
I will rage against the dying of light
will fight for what’s right,
because there is always the crack where the light gets in.
we eat comfort food
we drink wine
and wrap presents
we look for magic in the ordinary and the extraordinary.
I write, spread facts, not rumors
urge others to be consumers
of love and what is real
and what is already great,
but not hate.
I dare to dream,
to make dreams a reality,
to heal the broken-wings of hope
and send it flying
like 747s over geometric farms
I watch the sun rise and set
and think it is not over,
no, not yet.
We tasted some delicious wine at Sharrott Winery in Hammonton, NJ. Then drank a bottle with some brie. And we talked of hopes and dreams.