Dream Journal Entry #7

Please don’t stand me up again
++Dad. Not tonight — it’s the first

++++sound sleep in weeks. I’m waiting
++in the blue pickup, my hair washed

+++++and fragrant with honeysuckle
+++++++or lilac. The truck radio still

works, murmurs distant news
++or Blood, Sweat & Tears.

+++++++++The sack lunches I’ve packed bulge
+++++bologna sandwiches, potato

++chips and a sterling sleeve
of your favorite Girl Scout

++++Pixies or Do-si-dos.
++++++The sun tints the field apricot

++or watermelon, and this baled hay still
looks like sliced cinnamon rolls.

The engine’s running, Dad,
++a quarter tank of gas left.

++++Please come whistling,
+++++your tattooed arm slung

++over my scout shoulders,
here where city lights

+++++can’t extinguish the stars.

 



Click here to read Shelly Reed Thieman on the origin of the poem.

Image by Michael Schlierf on pexels.com, licensed under CC 2.0.

Shelly Reed Thieman:

This poem was written as a conscious attempt to invite my late father into a dream. He passed unexpectedly when I was 14 years old and has only made rare appearances these 46 years later. I make use of many intimate details from our life together to allure him. Ironically, my intention and need to reconnect with him took a turn when it was my late mother who presented in a dream just a couple of nights after the poem was written. Now that this piece has been published, perhaps he will reconsider my overture. I regularly experience lucid dreaming and have learned to set intentions when I feel the need to connect with someone still living, or deceased. I continue my work on the practice of making conscious choices to alter what is happening during unpleasant or nightmarish dreams, and waking myself if I am unable to do so.

Shelly Reed Thieman
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