I’m Pulled into the Dream

“And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown” —W. B. Yeats (The Secret Rose) Yeats rambles on; and I say rambles; I can’t make heads nor tails of much; But imagery invites me to lie down On a Celtic blanket, close my eyes And listen For the lips to alliterate, make love. “And the proud dreaming king…” My ears navigate the waters…he’s proud; He’s dreaming; he’s king. I float On my back; danger’s near, I might sink; How so? I lose my bearing…proud… Dreaming…king. I’m lost in the middle; It is my beginning. I lose my mind: “…who flung the crown” I’m pulled Into the dream…the jewels of the whirlpool; Big glowing diamonds, rubies and gold; Only the rich long to drown in such. Cease; Be silent, until I prepare myself for more. I tender my glass of red, Watch it sparkle, Circle, Slide into the sea, Then I slowly sip, Sip, sip…Yeats moves his lips…He commands; He’s the conductor. He reads the last line One more time, for effect. I sigh, Lean in for more. The blanket of His arm around my shoulders. “…who flung the crown and sorrow away” I could meditate on this all the long day. …and calling bard And clown. The mind goes wild like a frenzied crowd.