111119

Backwater


Off the trails
blazed by Dreamers
who slept in ancient days,
weedy paths meander toward
long-forgotten cities
buried in lexicons of thought,
afloat in dream mirages,
reveries of near-forgotten years,
unvisited, scarce real,
translucent, unmoored.

Sometimes we've heard,
round embrous fires, glowing
neath the stars who peer
at camps of dreamers in the waste,
or lonely on a dream-dark sea,
the doubtful names of cities
dreamt of once upon a night.

Hypersiphia, where youths may yet disport
and gorge on dreamfruit:
creamcherries, pureed, clotted,
and spread on cakes--
they prolong Dream,
mayhap forever;
maryapples, bearing the faces of women
of the waking world;
it's said that eating these apples
brings nightmares to those
whose countenances they bear;
hoogfruit, repellent of aspect
and of odor,
rarely safe to eat;
the chefs of Weltumn knew the trick,
tis said,
but they've all died, save one;
and she'll not cook again.

But move on, move on I say,
press aside the weeds of
time, seek out the wreck
of yesteryear and go.

Farther down the track,
scarcely a track at all,
merely a thinness in the weeds,
other citadels once stood,
rude stones, tumbled, blurred, and cracked,
faint earthworks furred with forest,
are all that remains,
unless furtive hunters trace
their ancestry to cooks, blacksmiths, and lords
of undreamed nights.

Beyond, this track is done,
and broken heights agnarl
with twisted trees of types unknown,
or unwholesome spawn
of oak, hickory, or elm, parentage
hinted by their raddled leaves
glare hungrily at dusk;
noisome fogs mask much;
something calls out like a frighted child,
another croaks words one fears to know,
even the weeds grow wrong.

No shy hunters walk these woods
but something furtive blinks
sulfur in the gloom;
its leavings: gnawed bones of doubtful aspect,
crabbed footprints, and other sign, whisper
“Stay not here!“ to those who
pass into the trackless lands.

Dreamers, only, venture here;
those who linger do not wake.




If you like this poem, check out my recent collection, Metastable Systems. This and many other recent SF, fantasy, & horror poems are found therein.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/760901

Dreams and Cats

What He Doesn't Say


I think my cat's been to Ulthar
he visits pretty regularly
he has that "Don't Mess With Ulthar" air
about him in the morning
when he comes in
he's not afraid of ghouls
and I can tell that night gaunts
know his name

The clincher, though:
my neighbor dreamed of a city
full of cats
most of them were black like mine
they seemed to know her
rubbed against her like my cat does
kept her safe; she's sure they chased away
several kinds of hungry things
the city's name? "Uther" she said
"or something"