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Author Topic: A Child's Dream  (Read 2632 times)
Andrew D. Perez
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« on: August 18, 2009, 03:01:17 AM »

Hello. This is my first shot at writing a poem.



A Child’s Dream:

I am an
old man
at the
ripe
old age of
ninety two,
and the
cancer
is gnawing
away at my
bones.

I spend
the majority
of my days
confined
to a
white bed
in a crummy
nursing home
dozing
on and off.

My sons
don’t visit
anymore,
and when
they do,
it’s to
talk about
my will
and what
will go
to who.

The white-hot
pain
in my hands
and fingers
makes it
so I will
never read
a book again.
The nurses won’t
put a t.v.
in my room
as they say
that I
won’t be staying
here long.

So,
I take
refuge in
my dreams
and relive
my life
again.

My
dreams
are my
memories.

I kiss my
long dead
wife again
for the
first time.
I can actually
feel her
tender lips
touch mine
and feel my
hand snaking
up her dress.

I dream about
the war
and feel
the bullet
that gave
me the
scar
above my
hip.

Lately, though,
one dream
has blocked
all others
and it plays
on and on
in a loop.
It is a memory
from my childhood
that I had
sought
to repress.

I dream that
I am a
child again
and
there is a monster
in my room.

It hides in various places:
one night in my closet,
the other under my
bed,
but it mostly
prefers to
peek from
behind my
door.

In my dream,
time moves at
a creping pace
and I catch
a long glimpse
of the monster.

It sports
steel grey
eyes,
and a thin,
broad grin
that stretches
across it’s face.

When it frowns
the grin
belly flops
into a downward
curve.

The grin reminds
me of
a clown
I once saw
in a fairground
my father
took me to
when I was younger.
The clown was
a rarity among
clowns,
in that
it’s smile
was a
comically painted
grimace,
that gave it
an air
of pitiful
humility.

I can not say
much else
about the
monster’s
appearance,
save that it’s
thin and tall.

On the
occasion that
I’ve seen it
smile,
it’s teeth
are razor sharp
and have
splotches of
viscus fluid
 that resemble
steak knives
that have
chopped up
purple chives.

In my
dream,
it beckons
to me with
a single
long,
grey
finger.

Even if
I wanted
to walk
toward it,
I was unable
to get out
of my
bed, due
to the case
of hepititus
that I suffered
when I was
young that
nearly ended
my life.

I grab my
stuffed dinosaur
Rex and
slip the
covers over
our head.
When I
chance a
peek,
the monster
is still
grinning
at me
and beckoning.

When I
awaken from
my dream,
I am
drenched in
sweat.
I am
back in
the nursing home,
in reality,
yet I
still see
the monster,
and it is
still behind
my door.

I rub my
eyes to
make sure
that my
cataracts
isn’t playing
tricks
on me.
The answer is:
No.

The monster’s
skinny hand
reaches from
behind the door
and begins
to beckon me.

I feel
a resounding
calm wash
over me as I
stare at
the monster.

My joints ache
as I
attempt to
get out
of my
bed.
 
I had
been too
afraid
to go near
the thing
as a
child,
but now,
as an
old man,
the fear
had subsided.

I understand it.
It appeared when
I had hepatitis
and now
it reappears when
I have cancer.
There is only
one thing it
could be.

I limp slowly
across my
dark room
barefoot.

As I get
closer
to the
monster
it’s grin
widens
and it stops
beckoning.

It opens
It’s grey
arms wide,
as if to embrace
me.

I finally reach
the door
to my room
and I stand
directly in
front of
the monster.
It’s sour
breath
hits my face
as one
of it’s hands
caresses
my head.

It’s cold
grey eyes
stare into
mine
as it’s arms
begin to
enfold
me;
holding me
tight like
a
lover.

Then it begins to squeeze.


That's it. It took me forever, but now it's finished!!!



« Last Edit: August 21, 2009, 03:15:08 AM by Andrew D. Perez » Logged
delph_ambi
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« Reply #1 on: August 18, 2009, 03:49:37 AM »

I would advise you to remove all formatting (ie line breaks) and look at this material in one solid block. Then you'll be able to see more clearly which are the 'spare' words (there are lots) that are diluting the message. Once you've done that, think very carefully about the most effective places to put your line breaks. You've gone for a long thin poem here, which may well be appropriate to the subject matter, but it makes it virtually impossible to read (for me).
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Woody
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« Reply #2 on: August 20, 2009, 06:44:05 PM »

Because I'm not an aficionado or professor of poetry I can say this;
I like it a lot. I love the repetitions that evoke and reinforce the sense of the poem and I like the overall premise; very dark.
In fact, as soon as I've clicked submit on this post I'm going to read it again.
There was a typo I noticed, but because I couldn't stop reading on, I can't recall what it was.
And, for me, the layout was pertinent.
Very nice work. For me it certainly spoke volumes. Looking forward to the final version.  afro

Edit: found the typo - unless I'm mistaken "time moves on at a creping pace" should be "time moves on at a creeping pace".

all the best.

Woody

2nd edit: the more times I read it the more the layout feels appropriate. Love it.

3rd edit: not sure why it's called "A Child's Dream" - it comes across as someone in their latter years.
« Last Edit: August 20, 2009, 07:06:48 PM by Woody » Logged

___________________________________________________________
Writers Anonymous(http://www.writersanonymous.org.uk)-a source of sinister anthologies
Perception is nine tenths of the look. Brave Dave the Feather in Caribbean Conspiracy
Andrew D. Perez
Stiff
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« Reply #3 on: August 21, 2009, 03:15:49 AM »

Woody, for your information the poem is now finished. Tell me what you think!!!
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Woody
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« Reply #4 on: September 18, 2009, 04:02:18 PM »

mustn't have my stuff here, ed keeps it.
« Last Edit: February 11, 2011, 07:39:02 PM by Woody » Logged

___________________________________________________________
Writers Anonymous(http://www.writersanonymous.org.uk)-a source of sinister anthologies
Perception is nine tenths of the look. Brave Dave the Feather in Caribbean Conspiracy
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