I dreamed I was a skydiver.
Alone with my chute, a real beaut,
red and blue, silky
with a milky white trim.
I skimmed the clouds
and shouted out loud as I fell,
plummeting to earth.
For what it’s worth, I bounced back
very high. Nary a scratch, save for
the lump and concussion
from banging my cranium on the night stand.
I dreamed I was an established musician,
a magician with melody
instead of a two fingered hack.
I’d attack my keyboard
and be assured that people would dance.
Me, in my tight leather pants
that would shred as I banged my head
on the microphone stand.
I’d be the man
with the lump and concussion
from banging my cranium.
I dreamed I painted like Van Gogh,
and you know I’d paint three eyed ladies,
and babies invetro, waiting at Heathrow
for the twelve twenty flight
to the Isle of Wight. The colors would be
appealing and the ceiling covered with spatter
wouldn’t even matter. My canvas stretched
on easel sturdy, with dried, dirty brushes
and budgies hjiding in the rushes. But instead,
I’d smash my head over on the Cliffs of Dover.
Just a rover with a lump and concussion
banging my cranium like a tribal percussion.
I dreamed I was the Hunchback in the tower,
daydreaming of the exotic flower, Esmerelda.
She who mesmerized and of whom I’d fantasized.
She really rang my bell. I could tell she knew
not that I existed and she resisted all my advances.
I took a chance and gave her wine,
and a pack of jelly beans. (Yes, it was
one of THOSE dreams!) And as the bells swung
I got too close and rung one off of my skull.
I didn’t fall, but I had a nasty lump (to match
my hump) and a concussion. It seems
I should wear my helmet when I dream!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik