Dreamscape of brother angel

Dreamscape of brother angel …

I slept fitfully at first and yet in the deep throws of night a dream came to me, mixing in with the sound of the window fan, the traffic outside the open window, tires on the pavement and the hot muggy nights of August. Deep into the nocturnals, illusions are scattered, broken, twisting and turning,  at times making no sense at all.  As I sleep however, I  enter willingly into dreamscape and somehow come to realize that, yes………I am  dreaming. And I dreamt on into a screen of passing years, seasons skirting by, summer, winter, fall and spring.  Images within images pass until certain faces of the angels that I’ve known here on earth fill an entire page.

There you are in a framed photograph on  a wall of old yellowing wallpaper and yet another image – you are playing as all children play. Oh, and how these dreams are precious even though all through the dream I know you are gone.  You with your cobalt blue eyes , speckled irises with small brown flower petals so deep deep within. Golden hair and a summer tan on your beautiful face, laughing as only young boys laugh when they know so little of the days to follow and the life without  them. Oh, all of these years have passed and the memories are still so damned sharp . Even the look on your face , that school picture at eight years old, of surprise , or is it simply the wonder of it all? We can never know until we meet again.

In the dreamscape, yet only half dream and half a memory I know. There is also the image of the accident. Those screeching tires and roaring of engine, exhaust smoke of burning oil , fleeting glimpses  and sounds and an eternal pain felt by those who survive . The screams of a mother  and, oh, yes, they call us the survivors. How little the record keepers know. Don’t they know you are gone?  “An accident” is how they declare this lone place in our memories , our dreams and our nightmares.

Dreams and now old dreams, because I’ve approached the age of an old man, they come to me in stereoscope. Once I awoke as a boy in tears  and crying for understanding , dreading the dark of night and the fear of death or perhaps only  the fear of  the unknown . Yet today the memories and dreams are mixed for the better I suppose. Ah ,the blessings of the ages. Yes my brother, the blessings .

For Dougie.

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EdF

Sometime in my life, I started to write about my life journey, in poetry, in story perhaps to sort them out and enter them into a place of safekeeping. The soul of the writer is perhaps best described in their words, emotions and thoughts. If these poems or stories touch something inside you then maybe I have succeeded in sharing. I will not write about my self in profile, because self isn't so important in writing. Only the journey in words and the sharing are important. Why would we say "Now about me!"... I'd rather write about life, nature, serenity ...

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