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| Dress from NewFrog |
It's shadowless, air's thick with caution. Everything's familiar,
yet comfort alludes me. House void of furniture,
front door's missing, humming floats from kitchen.
Realize I'm a boy. Same hairstyle, thanks to Mother's home cuts,
eyes, nose, mouth haven't changed,
chest still flat... strangely feel empowered.
Tear off shirt, it's allowed now, grab a stick, slice the air,
revel in new found freedom. Rebel yell escapes my lips;
then I see him and duck behind a tree. Paperboy.
Sister descends porch steps,
a shoulder revealing sundress goddess,
hair curled just so. Her smile's returned.
Long to be a girl, just not the one I was.
Run back into the house, slam heavy door behind me,
house so crammed with furniture a path toward kitchen is non-existent.
Mother's making cherry pie, which always makes me happy,
yet all I can do is stand still as my mouth waters.
Shadows have returned. smell of crust and fruit fill the air,
yet comfort alludes me. Twelve is an awkward age.
by Margaret Bednar, July 22, 2018
I invite you to listen to me read this poem (below)
I am participating with "The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - A Little Night Music" and writing about a dream or write in a dream like manner. I chose to try and capture a dream I've had a few times in my life - the same exact dream. I find it very hard to explain and I'm not very good at weaving a dreamlike tale but I wanted to participate.
I do LOVE sundresses and I almost bought quite a few while googling sundresses... this was almost a costly exercise but I refrained. :)
7 comments:
It's a fascinating dream, whatever it may mean, and intriguingly told.
Thanks Margaret -- I suspect dreaming teaches us how to write poems, if we pay attention to tropes and narrative ropes. How potent the age of puberty, bridging childhood fixations to adolescent daring! Easier -- no -- more permitted -- for a boy, though what is fragrant with womanhood (the smell of cherry pie, the dapple of a sundress) is more than enough to know which way to go. Whatever the meaning, reading was charged with memory and metaphor. What else can a poem do?
Twelve is an awkward age. I enjoyed your telling of the dream, that is a poem. Often we wish we were someone else....
Ah, such dreams can be the strangest which derive their visions from our own lived childhood. I like how you denote the freedom of it all in such images and metaphors. Dreams, if nothing else, provide a momentary escape.
Well-penned,
-HA
Ah, I remember twelve. Such plainness, waiting to blossom forth, lol. I so enjoyed this, Margaret. I also have dreams that repeat themselves.
Ah, that wishing we were someone (anyone!) else — especially at 12. A wonderful dream, Margaret.
I remember not a dream, but a deep reflection, on what being a boy might have felt like at 13. I didn't want to be one so much as just wonder how different it'd be!
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