SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which It Happens Again

(Digital painting by Jose Anibal Gonzales)

Two fragile, slender twins entered my dream
Again last night, ghosts from another time
Or universe, determined so to haunt
Me through this period. It's passing strange,
That nephews I don't have perturb my sleep
And all my waking hours with the sound

Of plaintive cries. Their fear's a painful sound,
They're stalked by death, these two, within my dream,
A death that is their heritage. To sleep
Is to commune with this pair across time
And wonder what they need from me. Their strange,
Uncanny claim on me's an endless haunt.

Meanwhile, conjured a friend of mine a haunt,
That comes among us without sight or sound,
A program or a virus that eats time,
Attacking clocks and spreading, like a strange
Intelligence, man-made, whose only dream
Is robbing from us hours in which we sleep

Or work, but I suspect it's really sleep
That we would lose by losing. That would haunt
Us all, forced to be conscious all the time
And doubting our reality, each sound,
Each thought resembling something from a dream,
Experience, each one, beyond just strange...

What are these tales for? What could be the strange
Intent of these blond boys, this program? Sleep
Brings questions but no answers as each dream
Spins and careens; we go from haunt to haunt
Of memory and unknown worlds of sound
And sight, familiar and yet not, each time.

Awake, too, in my bed, I watch the time
When Morpheus avoids me, when my strange
Immersions cough me up and ev'ry sound
Is alien, each shadow lack of sleep
Will magnify, another curious haunt.
Exploding head's as weird as any dream.

I love to dream, and do it all the time,
And welcome, yes, the haunt and all the strange
Ideas, but wish my sleep could be more sound.

Do Robot Cars Dream Of Electric Sharks

Sonneteer's note: this is a more detailed account of a dream I had two days ago. I wanted to record it while it was still somewhat fresh, and also to answer those who had questions about it.

A makeshift small arena, somewhere far

From anyplace I know, they circled 'round

Each other. Mayhap more robot than car,

I knew they each had shark's minds. With no sound

They tested out each other for a time.

A feint, a probe, a whiff of engine grease,

Then whirring came a power saw blade, primed

To gut the other; soon, just to increase

The menace, from the other shark-car came

An apparatus, swift and deadly which

My vision yet preserves but I can't name.

As they tore at each other, for a switch,

The impresario turned loose dogs, who

Came to no harm midst all this battle. Phew!

Who Are They?

My sister has no children; nor have I.
So where did these twin blonde-haired boys come from
That in my dream did greet me with a cry
And hug my legs until those limbs went numb?
Concerned they were with some fam'ly disease
Of which I'd never heard, and can't name now.
"Oh Auntie Kate," they cried, "Oh, tell us please,
Is this thing going to kill us? When, and how?"
I held them close but simply couldn't tell
What had them so disturbed. The anguish stays.
I still can feel their skinny forms so well
And feel their tears on my face. In such ways
A tired mind pulls something from the soul
Into the waking world. I've no control.

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Dream Of A Better One

Today I wrote a sonnet in a dream,

Dreamed, too, that I had posted it right here,

Where this attempt is now. But it would seem

The adder whom I dreamed stole it. I fear

It was the best one that I ever wrote.

I certainly believed this as I slept.

I reach now for it, just to watch it float

Away. I sit and wish now that I'd kept

On sleeping, even though t'would be a waste

Of precious time, called free, that's really not

At all free. How I live my life, in haste

To reach these days, only to nap and rot

When they arrive! And yet, shining and rare

That sonnet, dreamed of, still awaits me there.

For Bug Week: A Hymn To Be'gotcidi

Son of the Sun and trickster of our souls,

Be'gotcidi is Lord of the Insects,

A dirty god, as James Hillman extols

When he talks "Going Bugs" and the effects

These creatures have, in life and in our dreams.

Like these, his creatures, Be'gotcidi lands

Where'er he will, just to elicit screams --

Through us is how he souts -- as with his hands

He grabs at us to make us sing. Valery

In L'abeille knows this too, as he

Finds in a deadly, delicate small sting

Administered in warning by a bee

A "gold alarm" that is a wake-up call

To pay attention to the great and small.