Sleeping Lovers – Tokyo Subway
Heads together, each propping the other up, these sleeping young lovers were no doubt in a dreamy place of their own.
For more entries to the Dreamy theme, see The Daily Post.
I was born in an era of typewriters, snail-mail letters, no mobile phones, no emails, no personal computers. I still write letters by (untidy) hand and send them through the post. I’ve a treasure trove of letters written to me over a lifetime stashed away in my kist, including a love note from my husband, typed on a typewriter on a phone message note about 25 years ago :-), and a wonderful letter from a stranger regarding my father’s death notice in the newspaper.
And a few years ago, I discovered the many letters and postcards I’d written to my youngest niece over the years after I emigrated adorned the inside of her cupboard doors – she’d kept them all. We both prize what people have taken the time to write with us in mind.
There is one letter, though, that really breaks my heart when I re-read it now. It’s from a boy who grew up in South Africa in the years just after Apartheid officially ended. His name is Freedom and, at the time that he wrote this letter, he was a child without very many worldly possessions at all, but he was loved, and was full of joy and hope. And, as his letter shows, he had a genuine appreciation for so very little. 
Freedom’s mum, widowed early in her marriage, worked beyond hard to give him a good education, and she had high hopes for his future. He is now a young man but, unfortunately, due to some nefarious influences and bad choices, his life isn’t turning out so well.
My 5 picks from this week’s photo challenge at The Daily Post:
Image via http://www.sxc.hu
For a moment,
they bob,
these dull black balloons,
tethered to the traffic lights
in stringtime contemplation,
hermetic thoughts
jostle and tangle,
in colourless mirror-image
inscrutability,
safe
to dream themselves red-hot
airships unleashed,
cerulean adventures
aloft a blue-moon day.
xxxxxxx
Wonderfully talented photographer Madelaine Cappuccio has teamed my poem ‘Pedestrian’ with one of her beautiful balloon photos over at her blog, Images by Madelaine Cappuccio.
Thanks, Madelaine 😀
For me, dreaming is about possibilities, and none so wonderful as those brought by travel.
I became a xenophile at around the time I started school, and dreamt of going to live in exotic places, mostly Japan and rural China, and of flying off to wonderful cities, such as London, Tokyo, Amsterdam and Marrakech. Years on, and living in a different country, I’m grateful that I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to many parts of the world, and to have experienced incredible adventures and fascinating cultures as a result.
And the dreaming continues – I’ve yet to get to Japan or China 😀
To dream is to travel: to travel is to realize a dream
On these themes, a re-post of a poem I wrote a while ago –
Dreams of a Love Gourmand
He ate Suzi’s paella
and dreamed of Impanema,
of romance in Marbella
and Rio de Janeiro
–
He ate Fleur’s rindless blue,
his dreams were psychedelia,
he dreamt he was Theroux,
da Vinci and Ophelia
–
He drank Ping’s green absinthe
and dreamt he was a fairy
with eyes as green as minthe,
his wand, a blue canary
–
He ate Fang’s chou dofu,
her durian, then balut,
and napped as King Shi Chu
at war with King Canute
–
He ate Ann’s cherry duck,
nightmared of Gordon Ramsay,
who served confit of muck
with jus of some philandery
–
Then came Maeve’s Irish Stew,
no dreams his sleep disturbed
and as he woke he knew
his food of love’d been served
**************************
And for the Aboriginal peoples of Australia, Dreaming has a very special meaning – it encompasses beliefs about the origins of the earth, the stars and all living things, and the connections that exist between them, and is brought alive in wonderful stories, art and music. You can read more about the Dreaming and the Dreamtime here.
For more entries to this week’s photo challenge, see The Daily Post at WordPress.com
A poem for friends Gabrielle Bryden (sublime poet and lover of owls), who is currently fighting the dreaded winter lurgy,
and Bénédicte Delachanal (fabulous artist), who crafted these wonderfully funky owl paintings.
 The Comfort of Owls
From tsunami dreams
We bolt upright
And heart and breath
Race to the death
To drown out silence
Of dead hours
And throw us wide-eyed
To the night.
Then, faint, through darkness
Comes strange calm
To tension-wired
Synapse and bone,
The ebb and flow
Of delta waves,
Like a mother’s kiss,
Floats softly down
In owl’s low call,
Primal and deep,
Submersing us
In tides of sleep.
xx
For more things owl, check out Owls on WordPress and YouTube.
“In the dream,
she
got on the bus
and left, not
looking out the window,
you
crossed the street
and disappeared
into the crowd, never
looking back”
I
tried to erase
this, but
it’s grown
a monstrous
smudge
