Dream Poetry

Dream Journal

Dreams offer a fascinating insight into our psyche. I believe they reflect our deepest concerns or worries, and that much of the imagery in our dreams is personal. You and I might both dream of a horse, but the meaning of that horse would be different.

For many years, I kept a dream journal. I found the act of writing out a complete dream when still in bed worked the best. If I waited until later in the morning, many of the details slipped away. I wrote quickly without analyzing the images or action, trying to detach myself from any emotion. As I look back at the recorded dreams, the emotion usually becomes evident, sometimes more so than shortly after the dream had occurred.

This poem is based on an actual dream I had probably 20 years ago. I still remember the images.

Like This

by Linda K. Sienkiewicz

Halfway to yoga class I realize I forgot
my mat so I turn the car around
and head home for it. I need
music. After tossing cassette tapes
across the front seat, the right song
is missing. One hand on the wheel, I fuss
to get the tapes back in their cases.
A car horn blasts. I look up to a red light,
brake lights, street lights, neon LIQUOR signs.
I run the light, switch lanes, a Cadillac swerves.
Time runs out. I want
a cigarette, but I can’t smoke because
Mother’s here. She looks me up and down
and tells me to cut my leotards at the ankles
so they look nicer. Nicer than what?
I want to cook dinner, can’t find
the right bowls, pots, pans, where
is the wooden spatula?
At the front window strangers peer
in at me, then they’re running through
rooms, sitting in my chairs, moving tables,
quarrelling over decor. A man with yellow teeth
yanks my venetian blinds up and down,
up and down, saying Yeah, yeah, I like this.
I demand to know what real estate agency they work
for, they can’t just walk into people’s homes.
A woman dictates the phone number.
I carefully write it down but the last number
is a flower. I grab a laundry basket
and fold clothes instead. A girl tells me
she tried to find the same yellow
flowered overalls as mine but came up short.
I tell her It’s hard sometimes.
On the counter is a spilled flower arrangement,
dripping water on the floor. I gasp, Mother!
Did you see this? and try to fix
the flattened blossoms. I can’t
with her watching me. She decides to cook
dinner, sharpens a knife in a sharpener
so large I’m astonished we have such a thing.
She takes the flowers from me,
says I’m doing it wrong. Here. Like this.

Published in Apple Valley Review Spring 2021

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Linda K. Sienkiewicz is a writer, poet, and artist.
Learn more about her award winning novel, In the Context of Love.
Learn more about her picture book, Gordy and the Ghost Crab.
Learn more about her poetry chapbook, Security