~ from cats, dogs and nature to the flowering of body, mind and spirit ~

Friday, May 17, 2013

I'm Not Real

Among the cheerful flavored swirls 
of paperback books and unbound worlds
I find the sound that is my own 
and it’s unveiled through magic song 
of pen and ink and whim of mind 
that does not leave the dream behind.
Here in the recesses curving along
is the Imagi Nation where I belong.

I’m not real, though one would think
I was if they should pause to blink, 
but really I’m not because all that is here 
is the air of my thoughts and the ash of a fear 
that got left behind before the world came to be 
and so long ago before there was me. 

I’m not real, this hardened shape 
but rather illusion that yearns to wake 
in a world where flowers dance in the seas 
and all the fishes dance on the trees, 
where all is what it wants to be 
and nothing is hidden, not even me. 

I’m not real but a flowering soul 
asleep in the dirt with the worms and the mole 
or the tiny roly poly so precious unfurled 
but easily takes to his shell where he curls 
in on himself in utter delight 
that we mistake for his fright 
for he loves his flexible hinged body 
where none other can fold in such entirety.

I’m not real for I live in the soil
that claims all the dust and bones of the world;
here we are snug in our beds and our hearts 
united with particles, beams and parts 
dismembered and remembered and slung on the backs 
of the breezes that soar to a galaxy’s starry tracks.

I’m not real because I’m not this body, 
but isn’t it pretty and ugly and naughty? 
This body is all of the mind driven roles 
and houses a flowering, blossoming soul 
that is always here yet sometime gets buried 
in a world full of quivering faces all worried 
they can’t get it done or finished or started 
and yet I’m not real so I’m never downhearted.

What if we visited ourselves in a zoo 
where we’re all pasted together with glittery glue 
and then we could see how the shapes are unique 
yet fall all to pieces whenever we speak 
of a falsity buried in minds all confused, 
who think we are real and yet so abused 
by our own delusions we can’t stop to flower 
unseated by blinders of glory and power.

I’m not real, I’m a smile on the wind, 
a flicker, a firefly, a reed that will bend 
in watery rushes yet rooted in ash 
that is sand and the gritty bones of the past.


I feel in my heart that the nonsense is setting a part of me free, maybe just a little cell sitting in an organ or riding the red jet stream through my body. Maybe that one fancy cell of nonsense is reborn into health and innocence by the free flowing thought forms, the random experience of writing without restriction; just word association--or absence of connection--it doesn’t really matter. This is me at play! 


  1. Cool imaginative poetry! "What if we visited ourselves in a zoo" reminds me of something Dr. Seuss said about the importance of looking at life in new ways as through the other end of a telescope.

  2. I like your playful verse and delightful imagery!

  3. I'll have to second the Dr. Seuss comment by Diane.

    This poem evokes a feeling of fleeting moments, hardened substances in constant metamorphoses.

    It's amazing, creative, and deeply rooted in Gaia rhythms.

  4. Diane and Mermaid, I love that it evoked Dr. Seuss for you...omg, how many Dr. Seuss rhymes did I memorize as a child?!

    Thank you, Vicki!


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