Autumn Dream (Interpretations please)
Posted: October 10th, 2011, 5:57 pm
Note to All:
Thank you for interpreting this poem and telling me what it means to you, if anything. Also, the title sucks. Very cliche. Needs a new title. Suggestions welcome. Mostly, though, I'd like to know if it has any meaning to the reader and if so, how it resonated with you and what it means to you. Thank you again!
.....................
Blown up with an atmospheric pressure,
the endeavors of even imagining them
to be something real, wielding no reasonable rhyme,
as if the centerpiece of a crime scene.
Being right in the middle of it,
where crows come to nest, where the crest
of tides ride on the inside of a mind freeze,
where a breeze never stops.
It's too cold to imagine a blanket remedy,
knees up to the chest, the rest
of the fetal position, futile,
profiled in a reflection
of a shadow echo,
holes unfilled,
the still recognition of a distant star,
farther than an horizon leap, farther
than a jeté played with rubber-band
logic.
Weak memories creep beneath a pillow, make it too solid,
not as comfortable, not as supportive.
A head dreaded down into a mattress dream
seams its way past frequency currents of a broken spring,
summer past. Fall, after all, comes exactly like you'd expect,
nobody there to catch you —
on an air current mass just past the changing of the hue
of a leaf or the branch of a chief remembrance,
one blend of a brush at a time.
.
.
dp.10/10/11
Thank you for interpreting this poem and telling me what it means to you, if anything. Also, the title sucks. Very cliche. Needs a new title. Suggestions welcome. Mostly, though, I'd like to know if it has any meaning to the reader and if so, how it resonated with you and what it means to you. Thank you again!
.....................
Blown up with an atmospheric pressure,
the endeavors of even imagining them
to be something real, wielding no reasonable rhyme,
as if the centerpiece of a crime scene.
Being right in the middle of it,
where crows come to nest, where the crest
of tides ride on the inside of a mind freeze,
where a breeze never stops.
It's too cold to imagine a blanket remedy,
knees up to the chest, the rest
of the fetal position, futile,
profiled in a reflection
of a shadow echo,
holes unfilled,
the still recognition of a distant star,
farther than an horizon leap, farther
than a jeté played with rubber-band
logic.
Weak memories creep beneath a pillow, make it too solid,
not as comfortable, not as supportive.
A head dreaded down into a mattress dream
seams its way past frequency currents of a broken spring,
summer past. Fall, after all, comes exactly like you'd expect,
nobody there to catch you —
on an air current mass just past the changing of the hue
of a leaf or the branch of a chief remembrance,
one blend of a brush at a time.
.
.
dp.10/10/11
The title may be "old hat"