Beneath Asleep

Resting easy in my dreams

of vanilla clover…

Cold comes easy in the winter cane-

Summers over,

Beneath asleep of endless charades-

Dead poets impress me there

In my countenance ,

They shame me into being brave…

“Taste this soup of words,”  Witman rambles on.

Returning nightly in the translucent green dreams

Of sweet vanilla leaves.

Its over and I restore myself – Awake,

To an early morning evening.

Though being sober in my sleep eludes me again

To some wild forest fantasy.

Slowing my heart rate, I prepare my body for slumbers solitude.

While I wait for the wanderers to pass through it.

Dead poets telling me too much for a single human to remember ( especially me)

Still I’m not so grim;  though,  sadly most of it I will forget.  Yet,  had i mentioned

that after every elusive dream I save a few words of  theirs,  and mysteriously

I’ve written a dreamy new piece of poetry to share with you.

BY:  Delores M. Sparks