Friday, November 3, 2017

Magical Dancers


With this poem I enter a realm wherein I admit that I have gone completely mad.  Don't try to figure this out.  I can't.  I'm getting old.  I expect my future poetry to be very strange indeed.



Between my pillow and the back of my head
Magical Dancers
in the space where the stubble of my balding scalp
meets the soft fabric of my cotton dream ship
Magical Dancers.
Shall I wake and know this to be a dream?
Dancers dressed in furs and leather
wearing antlers and tusks
tracing circles and hopping
from one leg to the other
drums and rattles, sticks with bells shaking
Magical Dancers in a dream
but my eyes are open, my mind lucid.
This is no longer a dream.. Are these dancers merely
the fleas left behind by the cat as he warmed my pillow?
Surely not! Surely not!  But if they are, then I salute you,
fleas, for taking on strange identities
in a world where nothing is quite real
where fleas are shamans, magical dancers.
If I turn on my side, what will I see? Fleas vanishing into the cat's fur
or shamans celebrating the oncoming rush of death?

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