The Dream
That night I had slept peacefully,
no repeating of the nightmare of a few nights before.
In my dream I had heard a voice.
The voice was loud and clear.
“Clifford Olson is dead.”
There was no repetition, no explanation,
only my son’s name and the stark pronouncement.
I fought out of the terror, to wakefulness.
The realization that I had been dreaming
slowed my racing heart but
did not dim the horror.
Throughout that day and a few days to follow,
the voice followed, repeating the phrase,
over and over.
I had spoken to my son.
He was fine.
The voice still rang in my ears.
That night I had slept peacefully.
Then a voice again.
This time it was soft, sweet and sorrowful,
my daughter’s voice.
“Mama, Mama wake up.”
By: Joyce Johnson Won first place
For Constance~ A Rambling Poet contest, "Create Your Own Form, Maybe?
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