What Secrets About Us in the Dreams We Dream

    Recently I dreamed that snow had fallen in such abundance that it packed itself hard and high against our garage door. In my subconscious, I stood there shivering in nightgown and shoe boots and had a major anxiety attack, for there was no way in Hades I could get the car out, and I was due at Riverview High School at seven. I awoke then and with relief realized that not only was it a dream, but a scene dredged from somewhere in my distant past, for the garage depicted in the dream was from our house on Eton Drive. We moved from Eton twenty-two years ago, and as for being due at Riverview at seven, I haven't taught there since 1978.

    Another time in a dream, I saw myself approach an immense cauldron that bubbled and boiled and sputtered over an open fire. When I peered over the great pot's edge, I saw that there were little people walking around inside at the bottom, knee-deep in a thick, brownish soup. They were wearing loin cloths and banging bongo drums and were talking and laughing together, in no apparent distress. Upon awaking, I didn't remember the dream, but arose and went about my normal morning routine. It was not until later that day, at an odd moment, that it unraveled itself in all its vividness in my conscious mind.

    Without half trying, I could relate numerous dreams I have had. I revel in them; I almost relish them. There is a satisfaction and a curiosity for me when I remember a dream I have just had. Then I try hard, and most times fail, to fathom from which depths of the mysterious psyche it has come.

    Does what we dream have anything to do with who we are – I mean, who we really are? Or are they nothing more than cross-wired enactments of real or read-of, or seen-on-television images that distort behind the curtain of sleep?

    What is that stuff that dreams are made of? Wouldn't it be fun to know! ... or maybe not.

Benny,Will You Play For Me?

Will you come and play for me

When I am in the nursing home

And old and bent

And can't remember

What happened

Just ten minutes thence?

Will you come with your guitar

That I may rejoice

While you strum and sing

Your wild sweet songs

As in your newly- manly voice

You just now did for me?

Though in my twilight state

I may not know you or your name

Will you come all the same

And for a brief minute or two

Fill me anew with all the joy

Life has led me through?

 

Benny, will you come and play for me?

Once I Saw The Autumn Wind

Once I saw the autumn wind 

Lay a carpet at my feet, 

Red and sunshine gold.

But all too soon the wind grew cold

And with defiance bold and mean

Winter's bleak bareness foretold

By sweeping the sidewalk clean.

Then with lion's roar it blew

The last brown leaves 

Dry and dead from the trees

And laid carpet anew of a different hue.

Anatomy of a Scene

Tania and I were on a mission

When without my permission

They blocked our path,

Incurred my wrath,

By blocking the streets 

For the holiday parade.

We were to meet her mom

At half-past two, woe is me!

For already it was almost three.

Oh alas and alack – 

Her mother will think we had a wreck!

Oh what to do?

What to do?

Then comes her little voice

From behind

Stopping me in mid-whine:

Nonna, take a deep breath.

A Mother Lost

Why couldn't she have made it all the way to the end with the same gentle grace

and wisdom that had characterized her life?    I sit now with my hand in hers and 
think about that day when I knew even then that it was the beginning of the end.
“Look!  Look!”  she had screamed.  “Over there!  The far wall!  Those
ants!  An army of them! Climbing to the ceiling!  Oh, get them, get them!
Please get them!”
“Where?  Where, Mother?” I had asked, as frantic as she.  
But there had been no ants.  No ants at all.

Native Tongue

I can speak Italian
And in a pinch
Even French
But when push comes to shove
English is the language I love

Some people prefer German or Dutch
Others are happy with Russian and such
And folks in Sri Lanka, if you please
Are delighted speaking Sinhalese
While in China, I fear
One is likely to hear
Several varieties of Chinese

Nonetheless I must confess
That of all the rest
My mother tongue is the best
For its spelling may be peripatetic
And its pronunciation erratic
But I don't mind
Because I find
English oh so nicely
Defines my thoughts most precisely

One Shoe, Two Shoe, Pretty Sky-Blue Shoe

Long ago and far away
I bought a pair of
Sky-blue shoes
I wore them almost every day

Soft and dainty they fit my feet
But what made them such a treat
Was that wearing them
I felt myself a princess
No less

I loved them so
I later thought I'd buy
Another pair
At least I'd try

Alas I learned at the store
They had that style no more
And to this day still I mourn
Those sky-blue shoes

So if you find a thing
That suits your fancy
Something of a perfect fit
Buy a second one lickety-split