Dreams

My words seem so much more than inadequate. Too flowery and old fashioned for times of computers and devices that make handwritten letters obsolete.
I watch movies that make me cry wishing I had that love.
Someone to share that physically powerful
emotion
that can bring me to tears
aches in my chest with the fullness of joy
That is what I want in life
dreams of movies, fairy tales, and love letters
the poetry of joy filling my soul
honeysuckle sweetness and children’s laughter
the awesomeness of skies shining with everlasting
stars and twinkling
like glorious drops of rain on windows
mirroring images of fires stoked
filling home with warmth and comfort
that insulates the world
from the fierce and insatiable love between two.

I wish to be one of that two.
To be filled with thankfulness
to feel beauty in my love
in his love
looks of adoration
that brings such smiles upon humanity,
that sees grace in the flight of a paper bag drifting in the wind,
and attracts eyes with the understanding of fulfillment,
and the wish to share it.

It doesn’t matter that these overdone, over thought words fill people with laughter.
Words are not good enough anyway.
If I could write music, perhaps notes would fill the air
with longing
like the call of a loon across a moonlit lake.
But even then those phrases, those sounds would be inadequate to express what I wish for,
and dream of.

Dreams may be the only way to express these harbored emotions.

Sailboats flying through fields of golden wheat
The whiteness of the rippling cloth
expressing the pureness of these desires
the wind captured in their smooth folds
the way my heart is held in his hands.
He holds my face gently with those callused palms
and looks into my eyes waiting for the return of the rapture
he shines upon me;
rays of mellow sunlight
through the dappled leaves of Renoir paintings,
and the lightness
in Chagall’s pair of lovers flying
through the flowers of soft kissed dreams,
Van Gogh’s passionate swirls and dashes
with thickened strokes and deepened hues
expressing the insanity of his infatuation,
the languor and almond eyes of Gauguin island girls
satiated with the taste of foreign fruits.
I long to endure until
those sensations overtake me.

But all of this is only a dream, not the bricks of reality to build a stable life.
Is it possible to combine the two?
To fill my heart with passion and my home with security.
I’m afraid that the answer is
no
as unbending and cold as the steel rail on the steps of my home
leading to a life of
empty wishes and desires unfulfilled.

Dreams of ecstasy
wake to the boredom of beds unmade from sleep
not from writhing bodies locked in the grasp of exaltation;
tasting the sweet salty drops on skin exquisite
as the pain of waiting till the next union.

My hopes, cigarettes drowning in city puddles
surrounded by buried dreams of wanting,
waiting for fulfillment
Shoved aside by rush hour pedestrians running
to their prisons of moneyed lives
ignoring the ache and want of recognition in a stranger’s eyes.
Dusty rugs dragged from their hearts
with horns and honks shocking them to life
to the clamour and screams of their souls.
But then too afraid to witness possibilities
and this awakening;
the mind floods with doubts
sinking the brave
heart that swims waves of emotion
risking the pull of dark riptides
into grey oceans of normality
day to day sameness.

I yearn for someone to return that passion
that I extend in these clumsy strokes, notes,
words that are too plain
too small
to express the arguments of possibility.

This is what happens after watching these movies of love unrequited
but fulfilled in a manner unexpected
all the more so satisfying to the heart.

This is what occurs after reading love letters
written long ago expressing the sentiments
inflicted upon these passionate
artists, writers, composers, scientists
striving for the fulfillment of
their souls empty
without
The Other,
The One,
The Lover,

These lusts for perfection in days are an embarrassment
and laughable in their adolescent exaggerations
and childish idealism.