Irregular verb patterns and dreams

By John William Waterhouse -- Wiki Commons

By John William Waterhouse — Wiki Commons

I went on the side of the house that still feels like the country and had a leak there, spied the full moon through the trees out too many nights in a row now, bleary eyed and runny; I saw my breath, that kind of moist cold with the frost setting in and everything a bit crunchy, some frogs chirping, the suggestion of an owl, a good night for owls…

The inside of our house from the outside looked perfect how the candle burned, the soft glow, the majesty of it and stars above on a clear winter’s night, like a toy setting I manufactured as a kid, unreal and perfect for a time.

To lay vs. lie, these are important distinctions. To have lain under the milk of the cold moon, to lie in the thick moss of the yard, so thick it left my outline when I rose from it, where I lay, with whom I lie, the moss.

Dream residue, it’s how you felt is what you remember, those dreams that leave you feeling like you need to shake it off: poorly drawn scenes, nonsensical, the mind’s filing system laid out bare.

I gathered the fallen limbs from the yard; even the pieces of driftwood we’d saved from the beach I burned, they no longer resembled anything special, no cartoon faces or odd shaped tools I could see in them anymore, just scrap.

And as they burned I wondered if the memories there got destroyed or released in the air, if I could smell the sea salt in the wood and flames. If anyone would notice, or if it was just in my head.

I woke by the light of the morning moon cold on the sofa, wrapped in blankets, the ticking of the clock, the dream residue I tried to understand and let go of, though it clung to me.

Into a thicket of broken branches and upturned trees the cat went

The look on Charlotte as we danced and she twirled, a look of love

The uprooted tree strapped to a rock like a slingshot

How these scenes blurred in waking life and dreams; they demanded my attention but didn’t make sense, and I’d work to forget or remember them every day and return to my bed empty, to lie there until morning sorting things out, to rise for the last of the moon, and its cold light.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in musings, writing and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to Irregular verb patterns and dreams

  1. Ann Scanlon says:

    That was absolutely beautiful. I’ve been working through loads of memories and dreams these last few days in particular. Your words triggered something deep. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    i love the part about the memories burning and being released back into the air – like the water cycle, eternal.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. “the suggestion of an owl …” Love it. Sounds like the title of a poem.

    Nice one, Bill!

    Like

  4. Pingback: bgkskalata1org

  5. rossmurray1 says:

    You won’t give them the chance of being forgotten now.

    Liked by 1 person

    • pinklightsabre says:

      Well put, you puter of things. How’s it been? Why you don’t start posting ever day and telling me about your favorite bagel and what the weathers doing and so forth? What’s wrong with me anyway? Why does it always come back to ‘me?’ You don’t have to answer. Awkward, sorry.

      Like

Please share your thoughts!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s