Outside the mind
they’re no universals
Conflation and trend
— humanity’s bane
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
Categories:
conflation, truth,
Form: Free verse
In quiet dim corners and drawers untouched,
Lie precious things, much cherished and clutched,
These cold inanimate things, just like a friend,
Can ease our troubles, and ill feelings amend.
Each memento and much used everyday things,
Are something special, for the comfort each treasure brings.
It's not just any old clock, that's revered, it's only that one.
With its unique tick and tock, and familiar dial, homespun.
That old worn chair there, bears your weary form,
And imbues the calm balm of a massage so warm,
That mug that holds your morning brew,
Warms hands and heart with a ritual true-blue,
It's the constancy and reliability that soothes the mood,
That quells the angst of toils and trouble on which you brood.
These inanimate things are like an old friend
They're always there, when you need a mend.
They're vital parts of your essential being's foundation,
That meld your soul, heart, and spirit's conflation.
Categories:
conflation, heart, spiritual,
Form: Rhyme
In dreams, I’m where the music plays.
I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room.
My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting
and the peanuts taste like soap.
There aren’t any napkins.
Others are lines of light and shadow.
I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on,
like a dog works a bone.
My dream’s conflating memories.
Suddenly Lisa’s there,
she comes up from behind,
“Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says,
but before she can fix it,
I hear tower bells.
It’s my alarm.
.
.
Webster: Conflate: “to blend or bring together.”
Categories:
conflation, analogy, anxiety, dream, drink,
Form: Free verse
The Not Quite Sonnet of Not Quite Success
Play by the rules, or at least the principles
Then you’ll make a difference
Shake off the praise with diffidence
And yet it ends of ostensible
Maybe those with more organization
And less knowledge and skills
Can rise to a pay grade that pays many more bills
And idealization and realization reach a point of conflation
And a drink on a Friday night
And a few extra curves
Bring a loss of position and a few extra nerves
And a bitterness that brings doubt to hindsight
The cycle begins and it ends
With the means and the ends
Categories:
conflation, writing,
Form: Sonnet