Dreams Are Not the Same

All dreams are not the same:
Some are trivial, some are senseless,
Some feel important, others do not,
Some dreams wander aimlessly,
Other dreams have a plot.

When I lay me down to sleep,
I sink into the sea,
Deep into the waters of Dream,
Free falling into imagery.

For dreams are not the same.
Some are just bits of memory,
Places I've lived, people I've known,
Jobs and schools and libraries old.

I have a muse of poesy,
I've loved her all my life.
She guides my thoughts whene'er they stray,
And brings my pen to life.

The dreams she sends are not the same
As the minnows from the currents of sleep,
No silver fragments that dart on by
As I sink past them in my drowse,

But brightly-colored, memorable
Figures of fantasy,
Who school with me, on every side,
Until I reach the Dark.

There's no light in the deepest sleep,
No thought, no dreams, no memory,
No up or down, no space or time,
No awareness, and no self.

I have a muse of prose as well.
He speaks to my lion's heart,
An iron voice in the moonless night;
In the lightless void, a dragon-spark.

The dreams from him are not the same
As those my mentoring lady gives.
The dragon's dreams are death and rage,
War and fury, conflict, oppression,

The enemies who grind us down,
The foes who would deny us joy,
The killers who threaten all we love,
The fight, the victory, the satisfaction!

As I rise again, my self comes back.
The light returns, time and space resume.
The bright dreams of my lady escort me,
Or the dark dreams of the dragon, or both.

Because all dreams are not the same,
I welcome to me all of them.
Every dream's another life
Of sorrow and joy, of struggle and ease.

From awake to awaking, I sink and rise,
Over and over, in my cycle of lives.
Sometimes my lady speaks in one ear,
Sometimes the dragon in the other.

Dreams are not the same:
Some are poetry, others are prose.
I know I can never write them all,
My muses are too generous for that,

Sometimes intellect's enough:
I'm learning to write what I never dreamt.
But I think a story not born in a dream
Still draws its power from Dream itself.

I open my eyes. I'm awake again.
I turn on the light, grab pen and paper.
While my muses' voices are fresh in my ears,
I write a poem.  I think I'll call it
"Dreams Are Not the Same".


—Mexico
April 27-28, 2019