just dream

Dream again.
Go big.
Go small, too.
Any kind of dream will do.

Just dream.
Let ideas grow your heart,
perhaps the perfect pasta sauce
or an amazing work of art?

Forget the fetters
can’t and won’t,
forget the doubts that others say,
in your heart you know the way.

So look inside
and see what’s there,
uncover your dreams,
lay them bare.

Like food and air
we need our dreams.
Unique and precious to each one
they touch the world like rays of sun.

Your new words now are
can and will,
the quest of your dream
only you can fulfill.


Stand for Freedom

like a fearless tiger

there used to be dreams
unbidden, effortless
the heart and the mind
roamed all the wilds like a fearless tiger
hungry and alive in every stripe of the tail
eyes wide open at the top of a cascade
of falling water or the parapet of a castle
pennants snapping over snowy mountains

there used to be dreams
irresistible, compelling
every muscle aching,
dripping with sweat and laughter
rounding each new bend
whether frigid with cold or
loose with fatigue
sandpaper skin soft as a cool mist

there used to be dreams
they came from nowhere and everywhere
driven by instinct, unbounded
nature’s children first and always
inside the man-built confines
stop to feel the frantic beating heart between us
insistent, full
we could dream again



clouds sail across the sky
at first white, then softly grey,
as evening weaves her first tendrils.

the here and there of the day
slowly slip away,
muscles loosening
with a knowing ache,
thoughts meandering
in the prelude to dreams.

the sun fulfills its promise
with a hushed surprise,
opening night’s portals,
spilling the luminous hues of fantasy,
making invitation.


Eugi’s Causerie does it again with another delightful image and prompt, “twilight.” Many thanks, Eugenia!


downy feathers weave themselves into the nest
holding ever closer 
the needy hatchlings
tended with devotion 
their unquestioned cries answered again and again
until the day comes
when the dream bears fruit

the heart beats dreams into existence

the hatchling loves herself enough
to noisily demand sustenance
and knows love inevitably speaks to that demand
she aspires, bolder every day, without doubt,
to her wholeness

but what of unanswered cries?
what of the lone and tired shadow
gathering food in a barren terrain?
wandering in a dreamless pause
searching with the hatchling’s faith
when dreams refuse to come
the heart pleads

knowing dreams are born in love


dreams must be

The early morning, still dark and star-strewn, makes the space for dreams — the wisps of the inscrutable ones begging to be deciphered, and, too, the waking dreams of substance, dreams of the heart, the aphrodisiac of aliveness. 

These are the dreams that make us more of who we are, who we must become, as surely as a tender sprout must one day flourish with extravagant blossoms whether seen or unseen by human eyes.

Some of us are happily, if not easily, driven by those dreams. For others, we must allow ourselves to notice them— these dreamy sprouts — then nurture them.

Our dreams prescribe wholeness, not careers or salaries. Especially in a time when we are more and more reduced to and perceived in our roles as commodities, we must dream, and go there, even if in bits and pieces. There is nothing inconsequential about it. Do not look to the status quo to place a value on your dreams.

Dreams, big and small and in between, are crucial to our own lives, our social underpinnings, and to the globe we trod. They are not defined by the marketplace. The shapes and colors and sounds of our dreams make our world shine with love and creativity and freedom, irrespective of what can be bought and sold. They assert our very existence. Dreams are revolutionary.

If dreams die, if we forget how to dream, we must see it for the existential crisis it is. We must find our way back to dreams any which way we can. 

It may mean finding a guide or a friend to help, or it may mean revisiting childhood dreams and experimenting there, or it could mean learning something entirely new to break the hold of the entrenched thought patterns that trap us in our dreamless state. It could be a new language, or a craft, or a place, a history, a skill, that turns out to be the trigger that allows our dreams back into our lives. 

We must try, because dreams must be. Dreams are fundamental to life. And when we fan the flames of our dreams back into existence, we must tend the fire. Dreams hold our gift, to be cherished and honored in love by all. The world needs the revolution of our dreams more than ever.

open wide the doors

open wide the doors
this one and this one and this one
and don’t forget that one
open them wide, fling them, waste no time
nothing is forbidden.

you don’t even remember
what you left inside there
you can’t quite recall
the delight the surprise
the warmth of each treasure.

each one locked away
safely hidden behind the doors
while you manage the mindless particulars.
i am that little devil on your shoulder
here to tell you the truth though:

you are running out of time.
forget about the heavy wagon you keep pulling
just leave it in the road, right there, for now
and run to those doors
open them all, now, 

while you still can.

getting lost

I would be lost
in that place
where we meet
where all of possibility shows itself,
trembles with anticipated joy,
rests untroubled by anxious dreams.

I am lost
in that place
under the star-strewn embrace,
floating on the wind,
snaking like a vine wrapped around 
the branches of a singing tree.

knowing that one could just trip and tumble
into that abyss
of sublime lostness.
Contemplating the circular path
and the seemingly empty space inside.

before the light comes

The birds begin to sing before the light comes. The voices reach me through the windows opened to the soft rustles and creaks of the dark hours. They pierce the magic time of furtive shadows, clear and urgent and free.

Is it song? Or is it speech? Is it utter joy? Do they call lovers, call children? Do they call me, call us, call all?

The strain oscillates through the air, an abstraction, cryptically enfolding me. The darkened space in which I lay irresistibly expands to the trees, the skies, the stars. I flutter up to the birds and sing with them the chaotic anthem of our souls. No beat, no refrain, no syncopation, no rhythm at all but we thrum with the cadence of life.

The birds begin to sing before the light comes. They sing the primal language, the one we all know. My feet and hands speak it, the tongue of the breathing earth, the pulsing star. We are all there together, for that brief moment before the sun snaps its fingers before our eyes, at the feral edges.

So dreams will have to do for now. Imagination defies the story to which we have agreed. Later, I will remember what we all know to be true, and sing again with the birds at the outer fringe of night.

the power of dreams


A man told me a story once. Jack was in a wheelchair, having suffered an accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. He told me that, after his accident, he became profoundly depressed.

A therapist asked him to remember what his dreams used to be. At first, he couldn’t recall any dreams. Then, at his therapist’s urging, he remembered that many, many years ago he used to dream of learning to fly. The therapist encouraged him to chase that dream, in spite of his depression.

Jack started to take flying lessons even though he had little interest. He just went through the motions at his therapist’s persistence.

Eventually, though, it began to click.

He not only learned to fly, he got his own plane, took folks up in it for discovery flights, served as the president of his local flying group, and founded a nonprofit. In the process, he completely overcame the depression and did not allow his disability to stand in the way of living a life. In fact, he was a very active guy and looked pretty darned happy to me.

I always remember Jack and his story.

Our dreams are so powerful. And yet, we so frequently just shelve them as unrealistic, or too expensive, or ridiculous in the eyes of other people. But we ignore our dreams at our peril – for our dreams are the key to the doorway of our soul, and the secret of making ourselves whole.

I remind myself of Jack because once again I must look at the way I’ve ignored some of my own dreams. They are hard to recall – just like Jack first responded to his therapist’s queries. And yet, I suspect, those hazy, forgotten dreams are just as essential as ever.

I don’t care how kooky they may be, I really have nothing to lose by going for them.

And that would, of course, be the thing, to finally go for them.