Simorgh Press

Coming over the Starnbergersee ... A co ntinuing tribute to The Waste Land, Lines 8-18 And once awake we cannot help but wonder Who we are and what we want to say. We feel the rain before we hear the thunder Whispering a thousand miles away. Our points of origin are torn asunder, Separating us from yesterday. Behind the walls and roofs, within and under Which we live, we don't know what to say. But on the open surfaces are stories, Images for everyone to see The nakedness of all our twisted glories, The disgrace of our identity. We know we ought to stand up and look forward To the tales untold of dreams to be But here we are, ashamed of being mortal, Suffering and wanting to be free.      Now is the discontent of summer,      Trying to read ourselves to sleep, Mourning the loss of where we started from, Starting to hear the distant thunder drum,      Now is the discontent of summer, ...

We are such stuff... Whan that Aprill... Winter kept us warm... A poem in honor of the first seven lines of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land When we should sleep, perchance to dream of rest, We wake up in the middle of the dream, And, face to face with all our restlessness, We realize: the more we dream the less We sleep.  Yet in our deepest sleep we seem To seek the sweetest dream: forgetfulness. To let the mountain memories of yes- terday, the pushing pulling of the stream, The ocean of tomorrow's wantonness Be all forgotten: sleep without the stress Of time and place or meaningfulness, dream Beyond the test of schedule or address, Past all interpretations, dream the dream Of peace and find the stream that lets you rest.      The sweetest dreams we don't remember.      In deepest winter we sleep the best. A winter sleep is warm and long and safe inside.  The doors are shut, the blinds are drawn and we are undercover and ...