It’s been a few weeks since I wrote any poems. I still want to work on doing some more video blogging, but things have been crazy (oh, and I have been bald for a week, since doing the World’s Greatest Shave, but that is another story). Anyway, I wrote this little piece, called Maps:

Last night I dreamt
that I had maps of
the streets of Melbourne
tattooed over both of my feet,
in the old shades –
red, black, yellow and blue.
I hid them under socks
so that my parents wouldn’t see,

but my father only sees in dreams,
like the old Neruda question,
and I am almost 41 years old,
so I think that the mapped feet
are not just
the beloved city streets,
but every
thing else
that I left behind in the wake
of my days.

I’m not much for dream
translations, or
the other voodoos usually, though

I read somewhere
that nightmares serve
as a warning, and
that blind people
dream them more often, but
the dead in my dreams are
beloved,
and their appearances so rare
that should I wake with
the memory -not faded-
I weep with the gift of it.

Are mapped feet
an invocation to the
home that is me? That road

one
continues to travel, even when
limping?

……. That’s it. The Neruda reference is from The Book of Questions, and the line in particular is ‘Does the father who lives in your dreams die again when you awaken?’.

What about you? Have you been dreaming any strange dreams? Writing any poems perhaps?

Linking up Jess for #IBOT