Posted in court of reverie, Hope, minstrel in me

Dreamer

The stuff of dreams are fruits

Too high above, beyond

Your reach.  For the bird

It is the bluer sky way past

The silver moon.

The might-have-beens, what ifs

If onlys that didn’t come to be;

The glitter of the jewel 

On another dreamer’s crown.

 

The bigger, the better when size

Seems apropos.  A mansion that is not grander

Leaves the greedy feel deprived.

For the pauper, a house of cardboard 

Will suffice and so he thinks 

But curse the heavens

When his neighbor’s tarpaulin arrives.

 

Looking below his lofty dwelling

Bereft of peace and life,

The rich fellow wishes either

Of two: poverty or death.

A slave to occupation the worker’s back

Is hunched like a machine;

And then his soul yearns for the touch

Of the proverbial axe.

 

The stuff of dreams are fruits

Too high above, beyond

Your reach.  For the bird

It is the bluer sky way past

The silver moon.

The might-have-beens, what ifs

If onlys that didn’t come to be;

The glitter of the jewel 

On another dreamer’s crown.

 

By:  Ruth Mostrales, November 2008

Author:

Creative and practical. I am a work in progress. Doing life with my husband and daughter. Walking the earth, watching the heavens.

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