Excuse me folks. I'm still learning the ropes here. I'll get better at this.
My two previous posts were photos of the house on the hill. Here is a poem which, I think, evokes a similar vibe, although it has nothing to do with a ruined house. It's about memories.
In a Dream Without Knowing
Curtains breathe in the window,
My mind freewheels down memory’s road,
Finding milestones in the fog.
Blank tarmac separates them –
only white lines measure out years,
years of forgotten travel.
People I knew act on the roadside.
Their expressions don’t change while doing
the same things, over and over:
A calculating teacher beats me with a cane;
policemen enter my bedroom at night,
but I can smile and not care.
Past lovers are there to be summoned –
they never refuse me, but they move
with certainty, like robots.
They are prisoners in my past, my cohort of ghosts,
their power fading in my dreams, without knowing.
I live there too – strangely changed, yet familiar.
I wish to introduce myself to myself, talk
and ask many questions.
I am a prisoner in the past, with a cohort of ghosts,
powers fading in our dreams, without knowing.
And if I could travel their parallel roads,
where would I find me? What would I be doing,
and what would my countenance be?
I am imprisoned in my past, by a cohort of ghosts,
my power fading in their dreams, without knowing.