Sleep, dreams, and a poem - poetry
The Incubus' Flash-light
He looked exclusive my head
He didn't like-;
As I looked back at him,
Shinning a light
(and stole this poem from
Thoughts: Dreams and Poetry: in dreams we let go of our inhibitions; in poetry we write them back out. Some seem to be divine messages, while others seem more like satanic nightmares. Be that as it may, they are the gateway to our: fears, needs and desires. Our brains hang about dynamic all through sleep, thus some of us can plant an alarm clock contained by our system, and into our dreams.
During our dream states, muscle tone is nil (our bodies be converted into paralyzed). Why? Well, if not, would you actually like to act out your dreams? Not me, I'd end up on the floor swimming the ocean, or fleeting to a further fatherland exclusive of a plane.
It might be of activity to some: animals dream, just watch their eyes. But why? you might be asking, and that would be a good question; there are a few reasons. First, they are vulnerable, and yes, it is as it be supposed to be, part of the abolition deal with so other animals can eat. Second, cold blooded animals (reptiles) get energy from the sun, and thus at night, have very little; while warm blooded animals get it from food, and other ways to keep energy, and sleep is one of the ways, like us humans. Hence, sleep requires dreaming, and sleep gives energy. And animals need time to sort out strategies for survival, I would expect.
So I must ask myself: what dreams or memories are commendable of being a poem? For our brain-during sleep-sorts out the belongings sensible putting into our recall banks, and throwing away the rest. If not we'd have a big head, with a lot of useless-knowledge. Out of the #642 poems I've written, about 20% came out of dreams; and equally with my 150-short stories, and some 40-longer stories. So I can thank my sleeping and dreaming, for charitable much of my daily writings.
Note: #640, 5/10/05. In print while at the bookstore, brunette shop, in Roseville, Minnesota, USA
Poet Dennis Siluk, http://dennissiluk. tripod. com
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It's dark, it's cold, its' just six thirty,thoughts of sleep still dull my brain,As I clump down, contained by my coat,a customer clone, just coming up for a train.Insidious rain, just raining down,through weak light of creeping dawn,Paper sandwich bags and old chocolate cups,blowing past, look so forlorn.
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