Poem of the Month


The dreams are waiting. Slowly, they enter our sleep and become persons, words and colors. A giant cigar walking on old legs. Only with our eyes closed can we dream.
Bjarne, fourteen, dreams that he wins the match next Sunday. The foot ball shirts are hanging on the cloth line, filled with wind power.
Dagny Jensen in the suburbs dreams that her new knee is made of gold and gets stolen during her afternoon nap. Thank God it is just plastic.
Henry dreams that his dog gives him the leash and drags him towards the sea. There is a boat in front of them.
A newborn baby dreams sounds from the other cradles, the sweet warm feeling in his mouth – while his big brother dreams that the baby outgrows him in a few days and becomes a monster.
The soldier only gets bits of sleep, packed with all those dreams which rush forward and has to be dreamt fast or forgotten. Dreams are a luxury, quickly turning into a nightmare. Awake he stares into the night, wishing for sleep.
The mountain climber has suspended himself on an icy mountain shelve, recognizing his brother beside him, buried in ice. Over and over, a chilling dream becoming real.
Hjørdis, ten years, dreams about chicken who have a fever and lay hard boiled eggs in the morning.
Salomon doesn’t dream. Salomon only dreams one minute just before waking up, same thing every time: the wife leaves him, taking the dog and the car with her.
Sally dreams in color. About the red red blood that ran out the door with the razor blade, finally delivering her from pain.
Pixi dreams that her breasts start growing, with no silicone, with no payment. They grow and grow up to her ears and daddy is smiling at her soothingly, saying there is nothing to do about it. But I want to keep my breasts! Pixi shouts just before she chokes on the breasts and get the duvet out of her mouth.
When thunder comes, when bombs are falling, when someone dies, there is not sleep nor dreams.
The prisoners in Guantanamo never dream. Their dreams are hovering above them and will strike them hard in night mares, tearing them apart if they ever get out. The bars are coming with them and give no room for gold or wind power or breasts or mountains, dogs or cars. Not to mention eggs. Only noise.
Freud is lying in his grave, sending off the dreams.
© 2015