How the Brain Paints Your Dreams

This is where the poems come from, our own compost pile

Deep in your brain,

behind the temporal lobe,

sits the Lilliputian hippocampus,

The dream catcher,

fountain of imagination.

Build your compost pile here,

then add in:

All your dreams, even those you were glad

to wake up from.

That song from the 50's,

that you just can't get out of your head.

Your first kiss,

even though it was Albert, with all the spit.

All your favorite books that now are banned.

A conversation overheard at the pharmacy,

the one about

Aunt May's constipation, that you tried not to listen to.

Those tears you sobbed at the end of that book where Nathan dies,

leaving Emma and baby Sam alone on the prairie.

Now turn it, turn it again, then add in:

Dialog from your favorite movies,

the ones you can say by heart.

That time when you learned to ride a bike,

and you felt like you were flying.

Those trashy magazines

that you read in the checkout line,

and pretend that you're not that interested, just bored.

A cat fitting perfectly in your warm bed,

purring against your side,

so you can't roll over.

The gossip that you overheard whispered in the pew behind you

in church.

Now turn it, turn it again, then add:

How you felt that time you lay in the woods on a bed of pine needles,

warm from the afternoon sun, smelling like Christmas.

The street preacher down the street corner,

shouting salvation,

that everyone pretends not to notice.

Your husbands diagnosis,

the leaden way you felt when you left the doctor's office.

Throw all that in too, mix it up and add:

Sleeping in a luxurious king size bed,

your lover stroking your hair,

singing that silly song.

The movie that scared you to death so that you had to sleep with the light on

for a week.

That lovely, horrible poem your husband sent you when you were dating.

That time you laughed so hard you peed your pants.

Flowers on the grave of a friend that died too young,

the cloying smell of too many lilies.

Turn it and turn it, and turn it,

until it is all composted down,

rich, dark, crumbly, smelling like spring,

damp earth and fresh hay. 

Now sprinkle in some poetry seeds, and watch them grow,

sending out tendrils,

growing beyond the edges,

onto your pen,

and into your poem.

Author's Note

I'm wondering if anything needs to be cut in this poem. It is a long poem for me, so I would like to know what you think.

Reviews

[Buddy Hayes]

Wonderful! Life infuses our dreams, our dreams infuse our lives, and then, poetry. Beautifully written, nostalgic and sad and full of hope. Well done.

[NormaZ]

Thanks for stopping by and reading my poem Buddy!

[Stella Armour]

Oh love this style of writing, and the content is overflowing with imagery .... so well done !

I am in awe of how it all flows and fits together perfectly..

[NormaZ]

Thanks you Stella!

[Throwing Romeo]

Me thinks the extra
words sliped by the
prefrontal and anterior
cingulate cortex
inhibited by your
wise all seeing
right hemispherical
need to express
subconsciously
held nonverbal
genius clues
unknown to the
blunted reward
seeking dopamine
dependence of
explicit thoughts
bounced from
the amygdala
hippocampal
spiralling to
protect the
illusion of
free will.

In outher words:

I like it just the way
it is....

R.

[NormaZ]

Love it! Thanks R

[Throwing Romeo]

Sometimes i blurt...

[Vol]

NormaZ,
Nope, not a thing... Often, when I've written something, and don't come back for a year or so, I find I can say exactly the same thing with fewer words, and do a little editing, but rarely need to change any part of the skeleton... This poem has GREAT bones...

[NormaZ]

Thanks for the review Vol!

[Vol]

Excellent poem...

[Ken Simm.]

Oh what a clever and pretty concept. And no, nothing needs to be cut in my humble opinion. It is a perfect little mind mansion on its own.

[NormaZ]

Thank you Ken, I love the idea of a mind mansion.

[Ken Simm.]

Its a technique for remembering that I use. Each set of memories has a room in the large hotel and pub I was born in but modified and made larger in my mind.

[John the Baptist]

So the hippocampus is the culprit here. The little sucker sure picks out some weird stuff to store away. And here I was blaming my prostate for the first time I peed my pants.

[NormaZ]

Ha, ha, thanks for reading John.

[emmajoygreen]

Please, please, leave every word, every letter, Norma. This reads like a beautiful sharing tome, full of secrets that need be told. Your voice whispers loudly, meaning to be read, then.. heard and felt. There is much to take in, absorb, so many memories, still felt, still part of who you are.. and you are special - a very special poet. Beautiful, sad, remarkable, funny, memorable..

'Turn it and turn it, and turn it,
until it is all composted down,
rich, dark, crumbly, smelling like spring,
damp earth and fresh hay.
Now sprinkle in some poetry seeds, and watch them grow,
sending out tendrils,
growing beyond the edges,
onto your pen,
and into your poem.'

All you, my friend, all you.

[NormaZ]

Thank you dear Emma!

[emmajoygreen]

Meant every word. You could keep self warm and calm during an icy winter with that poem! :)

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

I love this I love long poems
It doesn’t worry me
Enjoyed it !

[NormaZ]

Thanks Julie!

[NormaZ]

Also, I had some problems with the font and spacing. I tried editing it, but no luck.