Thistle Seed

 

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Chased by the wind, I see you dance.

You pirouette without a glance

to those who stand and watch you twirl.

Swiftly gliding you pass in a swirl

Racing back to your private soiree,

you bounce on tiptoes as you glide away.

Although you leave me far behind,

I’m flying too, if just in my mind.

For in my heart I, too, do soar

following you over glen and tor.

You’ve touched my soul and set it free,

Sweetly dancing thistle seed.

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Autumn Leaves

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 Soaring

streaks of flame

skittering,

dancing,

diving playfully

through the air;

settle

gracefully

to the ground,

only

to be swept away

in

the ritual of autumn.

Tree

sunbeams through the moss

Birds repose on her,
many depend upon
her.

A refuge is she,
to the tired traveler.

She holds her head high,
reaching upward to the
sun.

Brave, she faces every
storm.

Moonclouds

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I watch,
entranced
as the wind plays tag with the stars.

Moonclouds
in soft, beguiling undertones
beckon me to join;

And the trees
in gentle whispers,
echo.

I start the climb,
to top the hill,
the grasses waving me skyward.

The very essence
of the evening
ever drawing me onward–

Urging me to reach the sky,
to touch the clouds,
to dance with the moon.

I top the crest
and throw wide my arms,
and Moonclouds sweep down to embrace me.

Sleep, Perchance to Dream…

Everyone dreams (even those who claim they don’t, do—they simply don’t remember their dreams). But not everyone can say that their dreams come true, at least not with any regularity.

I, like the character in the television show ‘Medium’, however, do have dreams of events that later occur in my life. However, unlike Allison Dubois in ‘Medium’, the events I dream have never included murder, and the only deaths I have dreamed of are usually those of family members. Usually, though, my precognitive dreams are of much more mundane matters, those typical day-to-day events that make up normal living.

When I was a child, my dreams were filled with the banal—I would dream of a conversation taking place between one of my teachers, and one or more of the students, and the next day that exact conversation would occur. The conversation wasn’t anything Earth-shattering, or even anything all that interesting. It might be that one of the students would ask a question regarding the Battle of 1812 and the teacher would then launch into an answer—as I said, not all that interesting. Yet, my nights were filled with these types of ‘revelations’.

It became so commonplace for me to dream of the next day’s events, that sometimes I wondered what the point was of getting up and going to school just so I could go through it all again. After all, if you’ve heard the conversation once, why hear it again?

When I went on to Junior High School, one of the classes I had to take was typing. The first day of typing was horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. The finger placement seemed totally alien, and the whole rhythm of the typing itself was like some foreign music that I simply didn’t understand. That night I dreamt of nothing but my fingers flying across the keyboard and the words magically appearing on the paper. The rhythm was no longer foreign, but seemed a part of my soul.

The next day when I stepped into typing class, my heart was racing, and I was sure everyone would be laughing at me again, as my fingers stumbled over the keystrokes. Instead, when the teacher told us to start typing the exercise, I was the first one done, and with absolutely no mistakes. I couldn’t believe it. Then I remembered the nightlong dream filled with typing, and realized that this time, my prophetic dream was actually an astral visit where I taught myself how to type—literally overnight. That’s when I began to see some use to these dreams I kept having. If I could teach myself to type while dreaming, maybe I could ‘memorize’ the answers to the tests in a dream and save myself from having to study.

As much as I would have liked to have ‘learned through dreams’, that wasn’t to be. Instead, my dreams took another giant leap forward in a different direction. Now, I started dreaming of what was to happen to my friends, and family. But these dreams weren’t just for the next day. In fact, they were usually weeks, maybe months, into the future.

I remember seeing my father decked out in his uniform and being handed some official-looking piece of paper by an officer while surrounded by others from his department, and they, too, were all dressed in their formal uniforms. It was all filled with a lot of pomp and circumstance and I kept seeing the letters SGT.

Well, about a month later, my dad announced that his captain had selected him to take the sergeant’s exam. I told my dad that he would do great, and he simply gave me an indulgent smile. He knew that I had no idea how difficult the exam was, but then my dad didn’t know what I did, either—that I had already seen him being awarded the promotion.

As I said at the start, the dreams of death aren’t often, and they usually pertain to someone close to me—uncle, aunt, grandparent, etc. The most memorable dream I had in this capacity involved my uncle, Uncle M. He was one of my favorites, being a scholar-cast artisan, we got along quite well. He taught me all about photography, and nature, he let me spend hours sitting in his workshop while he turned ordinary pieces of wood into beautiful guitars.

One night when I was 14, I saw my uncle walk out of his front door and down the walkway toward his car, which was in the driveway. It was early morning in the dream, and he turned and gave a little wave to his wife (my dad’s sister). Then, as he turned back toward the car, he blew up. There was a flash of flame, the sound of an explosion, and then nothing. I sat straight up in bed, panting, and overwrought.

It took me several hours to calm down, and when I finally went back to sleep, I found myself dreaming of my uncle again. This time he was in his uniform (he worked for one of the large airlines as a chef—this was at the time when they still served real meals on air flights), and for some reason he was walking across the tarmac toward one of the large jets sitting there. I saw myself running after him, yelling for him to stop, but he didn’t seem to hear me and continued walking away from me. Just as he reached the stairs going up to the plane, the plane exploded killing my uncle.

Again, I sat up, but this time I turned on all the lights and refused to go back to sleep. I watched the clock as it the time crept toward morning, all the while dreading the news that I was sure would come with dawn. But dawn came and the phone remained silent, and nothing happened.

Each morning for the next two weeks, I would awaken early and wait, dreading the news that I was sure would come. And for two weeks, nothing happened. Finally, I convinced myself that it had simply been a dream, and everything was fine, and I stopped hovering near the phone at the crack of dawn.

2 months later, I came home from school to a saddened household. My mother told me that Uncle M. had died that morning as he was leaving for work. He had gone out to the car and had a massive coronary—his heart had literally exploded—killing him instantly. I was horrified. I hadn’t said anything to anyone about my dream, because it seemed so silly. Yet, at the same time, I had believed in it enough to wait for that horrid phone call every morning for 2 weeks. Now, I kept wondering if I should have said something—after all, maybe I could have prevented his death. Maybe if I had said something, he could have seen a doctor, gotten a magic pill, or one of those operations that people had when their hearts were bad. Instead, I had done nothing.

For the longest time, I refused to allow myself to dream. I didn’t want to know what was going to happen—good or bad. I mean, what good was it, when I couldn’t stop good people from dying? As for the good news, well, most of the time is wasn’t all that good, it was simply mundania from every day life.

After about 3 years, though, I realized how cut off I felt. It was as if part of me had been imprisoned. There was vital information out there that I wasn’t getting because I wouldn’t allow myself to, and I realized that I didn’t like the feeling. I needed, and I wanted that information—no matter how mundane it may seem. Somehow, those dreams kept me in contact with the whole world, with the universe at large. Without those dreams, I was deaf, dumb, and blind in a world full of sharp edges and unexpected pitfalls.

By allowing the dreams back into my waking life, I’ve allowed myself to link up with and interact with many more people than I would have ever had the chance to meet here in the physical world. Because by allowing my waking self to remember my dreams again, I also allow myself to remember all the astral visits I make.

I’ve also allowed myself to remember those prophetic dreams again, and even though they may not allow me to stop things from happening, they do give me ample ‘warning’ so that the choices I make in response to the events aren’t made strictly through emotions. There’s a bit of thought and contemplation behind those choices, which helps me stay on the best path for me.

I’ve warned myself when I’m entering a new lesson, or when someone else has made a choice that I wasn’t expecting and which is going to affect me, and they have continued to alert me to those around me who are going to die. But that’s alright, because you see, I’ve come to understand that death is just another aspect of life, and everyone has to experience both sides of that coin—life and death. Knowing about someone’s choices ahead of time, simply lets me be a bit more prepared, that’s all.

Life

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Rings expanding outward,

dancing in rippling waves,

they move closer to infinity.

 

Light moving forward,

glowing in shifting bands,

it becomes another reality.

 

Man soaring upward,

searching in futile ways,

to prove he is important.

Waves

5387-Beach--8x10You come, you go.

You tickle the toes.

You caress the ankles,

then run away.

You like to tease,

you want to play.

You rush onshore,

then change your mind,

always leaving small treasures behind.