the rabbit and the moon

the rabbit and the moon

the rabbit rose early that eve, nibbling at the sliver moon.
I am the moon, rabbit said.  maybe moon won’t see.
 
the moon rolls into shadows.  playing with the day.
playing with the night.  he smiles, the way moons do.
 
rabbit nibbled at both the dark and the crescent, bright.
I am the moon, she thought.  maybe moon won’t hear.
 
moon pours himself into the sea.  closer now.
moon feels shy so he sings.  song becomes water,
 
raining stars into the ebbing sky.
 
rabbit hears.  she knows, moon was listening.
rabbit sees the moon in the sea, looking back.
 
rabbit feels the grass beneath her feet.  then
the grass becomes waves, becomes a song, then
the moon.  then her cloak, then her belly full.
 
now that you’ve climbed into sky, rain becomes
my voice.  I am the rabbit, sings the moon.
 
and here, beneath the empty sky, and then
the dream began.  closer now.

 
 
neil reid © september 2013

 
image: Lunar libration with phase Oct 2007, via Wikipedia in the public domain

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do chickens dream of us?

do chickens dream of us?

 
it seemed like a mostly usual night, like a mostly usual dream

however it began with a couch and

there was a man with a beard and a woman with red hair
standing inside a crowd and

there was a hammer and nails and something was changing
something made of wood and

it was a house for chickens to live inside
or it was more like a stage where they’d perform

and when they came outside they stood on stepping stones
surrounded by dirt by muddy dirt

so someone in the audience said and maybe
it was the poet or maybe not and

that there should be more stones so the chickens
wouldn’t have to stand in mud and

then further announced

that only the hens knew better to step on stones
and not the mud

and just then

someone else stepped inside and stole every word
of this dream right away and

 
 

neil reid © august 2012 (and one willing dreamer)

  
comments:
And here I testify and certify this dream is for real.  I know because I’m the one who stole the words!  (with permission of course)  (although where would most writers be if not for an occasional raising of the skull and cross-bones!)

And to demonstrate that poems (including dreams) need not justify themselves nor have a point besides being exactly what they are, and we would do well not taking things all so seriously so much of the time!

Ever ride one of those small old-fashioned roller coasters?  This dream, this poem, they’re kind of the same.  To smile is like a door.

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Abacus (answers are implicit you see)

Abacus (answers are implicit you see)

One day there is a dream.
And the dream has a path.

But the path has no eyes, only feet.
So you see why it’s important to observe.

Also why to see yet have no feet
is pointless grace, as Einstein said.

That’s why it’s called teeter-totter.
Why it’s called, at root, simply, play.

And why peek-a-boo amuses us so!
Close your eyes, and sky will swim.

Yet no fret.  Not for even one inch,
for there’s a million eyes, a million feet.

Did you think they belong to only any one?
Now there, that’s the real conceit of thought.

But here’s the part where you feel sometimes lost,
because you see, every path also has a dream.

So here, here’s some scissors.  Now dream.

neil reid © july 2011

commentary:
Oh woe, this is a shaky thing, so high-ended will the steeple of cards survive till the end? Can I blame some muse for landing this upon my head? Ungracious, I’d suppose. Your tolerance here is begged. (Better if I just played in the dirt!) Thus said, on to whatever’s next.

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