To dream is a wonderful thing

The rain keeps irregular time
pattering on peeling window frames;
the birds settle in the autumn hours
and I take to dream upon your name.

Softly the syllables I mouth
as if to conjure flesh made real;
you would bring
your timeless beauty
and a tender kiss I’d steal.

I labour just to tire
to toil that I may rest;
to hold you not in my imagination
your head soft upon my chest,
to hear nothing
but my beating heart
dull; slowed with peace,
to wander Wordsworth’s daffodils
hand in hand
no hill too steep.

The alarm clock rings
you are lost to the working light;
no matter how short my days
your name
is comfort
to my night.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

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10 thoughts on “To dream is a wonderful thing

    • If I had said them to her face
      and not under my breath
      I could still be married
      and not sleep in an empty bed.

      Such is life. Thanks for your comments.

      You seem to be in a rich vein of verse. Feeling inspired?

      Dave.

      • Those perfect words that hit you 20 minutes or 20 years too late. And yes. I am feeling the buzz. The vibration to write. I need a topic or tonight’s muse to pop out of the wood work. And, yes, I too adore the concept of a muse. It amuses me. Sorry, that was bad. 😉

      • Stop it Stop it now Stop using all the best words! “The Vibration to write”

        I have always wanted a muse, i envied the poets and artists of the past, the Bloomsbury Set and their ilk.

        I have often thought of setting up a “Muse Laureate” an honorary title that pays a token wage, maybe a crate of cigarettes and 6 bottles of wine. They must make themselves available for the post, physical contact is not a requirement of the job.
        I wonder if I would get any applicants?

        Dave

      • With your words to stroke their ego, how could you not have them lining up around the block? Me, I find a muse in every shared moment. A heated look. A flirtatious exchange. I probably shouldn’t reveal too much for fear of ruffling feathers.

        And yes, I find poetry slipping in to my normal conversations tonight. I was having an exchange with a friend wanting to connect more during sex where I shared, “When I spread my legs I open my heart”. Somebody please stop me before I burn my fingers.

      • To muse upon you

        When you spread your legs I melted like butter Golden; warmed By the touch of your hand; When you opened your heart I dived breathlessly in And you made me Feel like a man.

        Thank you for the inspiration.

        Dave

        Must go it is five am in England and I can’t keep writing frightening verse to a beautiful soul on the other side of the world.

      • A slight change in the wording not the sentiment.

        Love Spreads.

        When you spread your legs I melted like butter Golden; warmed My life in the palm of your hand; When you opened your heart I dived breathlessly in And you made me Feel like a man.

        I think I’m happier with this version.

      • Love Spreads

        When you spread your legs I melted like butter Golden; warmed My life in the palm of your hand; When you opened your heart I dived breathlessly in And you made me Feel like a man.

        That’s what I meant to email, stupid Blackberry with its stupid small keyboard.

        Dave

      • Ah, the familiar over thinking of a perfectionist poet. I can say that when I read the original post it rendered me breathless.

        I am honored, awestruck and amused. Thank you, poet vand you may keep your crate of cigarettes 😉

        Sleep sweetly

        Sarah Jane

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