Dreams Poems | Poemist

Popular Dreams Poems

weaving dreams

by Rikske Kessner

"weaving dreams"

on my downy pillow
I will snore, as they say
to ruffle night's silence

prop my fluffy teddy
to my shoulder

......

As I sleep I tend to dream
About what I hardly know
Adventures I have by the dozen
Through Wind and Rain and Snow
Sometimes I am an Astronaut
In a spaceship far away
Whizzing around the Universe
A different planet every day
Or sometimes I am a Cowboy
Riding the range all day and night

......

parched dreams

by Rikske Kessner

“Parched Republic of Dreams”

We declared a border where the dry well cracked,
elected officers from men who could no longer swallow,
and minted coins from rusted washers.

By noon, the flag had rotted in the heat.
No water came through the irrigation ditches,
only the dry hiss of cicadas demanding tribute.

......

Congratulations! You've discovered dreaming!

by jan christian MN

Every step you took and would fulfill was written out there somewhere, engraved in something alive, something inhumanely human. The second your soft infant skull was greeted by the starving air, it was known: you were doomed to decay, a continental feast for the earthworms. But you must live your years fearing death, like it were an escapable end; that no matter how colossal the tunnel was for the mortal eyes, you must persevere, at least until a speck of light dapples into your face.

The world outside of the 'turning point' was something unknown even to the omnipotent people you had in your English class—when they said Hughes was a lawful husband, you knew it was the end of the human race; you'd think, yes, perhaps the doom was part of the mind; we are our own nemesis, electrocuting past the flaws to make it seem like we had it the first time, but even the just-so-happeneds were meant to happen; they weren't a reflection of your magnetic existence, they were experiences waiting to happen.

The cache of gold at the end of the rainbow was a mere illusion, a key to open the gates of reality, for too much grounding would only do us harm. Think fiction, where dungeons were glorified as monumental structures of the revolution, the revolting rise of the apes—or so they said—Princes always catch the Princesses, because that was how the chapters of a life were sketched, a tall tale of too much telling. Still, hearts remained as the main points of the stories; you'd realize once you step your one foot out of the book that the axis of the core relies on your operating mind. Fantasies were cover-up for the subjective cracks in the world, a facade working the graveyard shift to keep the narrative running: that we are the weakest link in the food chain, and all we can do is dream about the magic life of picket fences disguised as castles and crowns.

When weekends turned out better than foreseen, they'd write about the hell manifestation in the contemporary. When seconds didn't go as planned, they'd whisper about the delicate sight in every little matter, every little moment, and suddenly, salvation was a thing again, because damn, I'm late for work! Sufficiency was the empty container in the veins of the amalgamated flesh, wondrous traits wrapped around their bones like fiber, and god, they love being healthy and on-track, and keeping track of the missteps and falls.

Routines were the central branch of the prophecy; amendments would come and go, but nothing would alter the state of consciousness wherein we were formed to alter boundless possibilities: as small as the formation of rocks to forestalling an oh-so-great-and-moral manmade war. Our bodies were puzzle pieces forming a bigger vacant landscape for the next wave of bodies, and they, too, would lay the foundation for the future of the specimen. You'd be nothing but a mere human who once loved, once frowned, once grieved. You'd tell yourself, 'the future is now,' and big, fat congratulations! You've discovered the optimistic undertones of painting colors to a fantasy, with enough personal elements to ground you, and enough hopeless faith to have it carry an irresistible goal, something worth drooling over like a sweet tooth. The hunger of the human spirit is indomitable; we must let it wander, even if it means looking like a pathetic follower of the invisible.

......

Storm - Before And After

by Tonmoy Datta Mishu

This time, the wind blows,
Just like I wanted once.
I wanted to feel the strength of the wind,
Standing by the seashore.
I wanted to give all of myself to the nature.
I was hungry,
There was no shelter for me.
It was cold, I was shivering.
I didn’t know what to do,
I was all alone.

......

Recent Dreams Poems

weaving dreams

by Rikske Kessner

"weaving dreams"

on my downy pillow
I will snore, as they say
to ruffle night's silence

prop my fluffy teddy
to my shoulder

......

The Dreamer

by Owen Cullimore

parched dreams

by Rikske Kessner

The Only Way

by Lee-Ann Azzopardi

It's the end of November
And the coldness came finally
This year I want to forget
The tragedy of you leaving
To the depths of the sky is unbearable
I know you will never return
But I was hoping you would
What am I thinking?
The only ways in my dreams

Do As You Wish

by Evelyn Judy Buehler

Andrew Morton was a dreamer, and had been one for quite some time,
Just as language had to dream awhile, before it'd learnt how to rhyme.

Andy often felt like a wishing well, for he had such hopes and dreams;
Like one caught between a midnight maybe, and the red sunrise theme!

He lived in the house that he was born, and it was a house that he loved,
In agate hours of someday; like a handshake with the future, ungloved.

His friends also felt the future was faceted, and held shades of promise;

......