Finding the metaphor through
Dreams are like small pictures, images or metaphors
that speak another language. Finding meaning in a dream image, especially in your own dream image, can be next
to impossible unless you are in a creative frame of mine. Putting a dream into poem form, forces one to find metaphors,
the perfect word or phrase, the right emotion, to connect with the dream. Suddenly you have meaning where enigma
A Meteor of the Eternal
Breaks through crest
Disturbing all our senses
Along a glint of day.
No thing untouched remains;
This Holy Ripple
Blends each in each
Binding then releasing
As extant Natures deem it meet.
The cacophony now ended
gives its place
To several sparks descending
Through Love and Numen Grace.
Poem by Mark Pinard, a fellow dreamworker and writer
Taking a dream or even an emotion related to a
dream that you cannot quite remember or grasp, and framing it within a poem can be very illuminating. Below is a poem
I did centered around Crows which seem to haunt our property and occaisionally my dreams...
The Crow is my Shadow.
Strong and loud.
Noisy and proud.
Both Life and Death,
My only savior.
She Caws the Truth of my inner Self.
Emotions left behind:
"I am your Worth, lost along the way. Just beyond
your conscious reach,
I eat the seeds that your dreams have planted.
So that one day they might grow
In the daylight."
"See Me...Feel Me...Hear me...Heed Me."
Even though it might seem easy to interpret your friend's
dream...when it comes to self-interpretation the task is daunting.
Here is an example taken from one particular dream scene:
The dream scene: I am wandering around the outside of
a meeting house when I see a young toddler drowning in a pool. I rush to save him and bring him back to him Mother who
is inside, unconcerned about her baby.
What am I doing here wandering
Is this my house? Am I supposed to find
A child is drowning in a pool; unconscious
I save him, he is
Cradling in my arms I take
Him to Mother inside
Where it is safe and warm.
Thrusting his frail body
in front of Her face:
I am undaunted, stoic, rageful.
I notice vomit down my own face;
It is His creation, yet I am the
I don't care anymore.
The Child is safe.
Was not the world created
|Saving My Baby
|Oil Pastel, 2008
Cold and rigid,
Dirty and wet.
My child is brought to me.
Bagged head, Plastic death shroud.
With searching eyes, orbs of endless wonder,
I feel him say:
I tear the plastic shroud from his beautiful head. He
is so cold.
We plunge into the warm water.
Warm, not hot.
His relaxing body cannot accept my racing heart:
Too hot, too fast, can kill.
Rocking back and forth,
In tempid water.
We cling to each other.
I plead to both genders, just in case:
Oh God! Oh Great Goddess!
Save my child. I will do anything.
Anything for him to live.