dreams

TE WAIRUA FREE (‘The Free Spirit’)

My spirit needs mending but I have
no coloured thread
to darn these fraying burdens

The eye of this needle lay gaping and empty
and I am standing on its edge ready to fall through;
a knot to my ankle, and my fast surrender,
and I’ll fly deeply in to weave new dreams:
a fresher self with perfect stitching
– an un-perished disaster –
still surviving in spite of her erupted soul

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 19 May, 2017

I NEVER GIVE UP

Why now, at this peak?

the one we climbed like we were foraging,
like the treasure was ours, and
like we were owed the magic;

the one we promised to ourselves,
like the challenge spoke to our needs
– like spooning, and completeness –
like the familiar sound of Soulmateship;

the one we both ate hungrily
like cheesecake and strawberry sauce,
like viking sex and the sound of rain,
like the walls called for our skin;

the one we privately rode
like thunder and like history,
like couch kissing at 3am,
like the pre-cum that belongs on my lips;

the one our lives changed for,
like losing everything to win,
like the years mattered more now –
like purpose was our new team;

the one we physically yearned,
like this distance made us lovers,
like the words we longed to speak,
like our eyes smiling in perfect silence;

the one we learnt to master,
like the Gods of old had promised,
like synchronicity was our call,
like the prophecies had written us;

the one our dreams showed us,
like we undressed our karma,
like it was destiny we could touch,
like we had angels for our guides;

the one we paved and craved
like the path was suddenly clearer,
like the bumps were sensual touches,
like the signposts contained our names.

Why now, at this peak?

the one we fall from, both alone,
like we have forgotten we had a bond,
like our chemistry now parries –
like our freedoms matter not.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 11 April, 2017

WHERE THE MAPS WON’T

Journey across time with calendar wings,
moments packed like spare t-shirts
and extra socks,
passport in one hand and
a window seat to the right;
an empty notebook pencilled by thought –
its white void the clouds
that fuel your glorious lungs

Honeymoon with more sky and fewer limits,
bound at the ankles by freedom
– and spontaneity, by chance –
the fresh juice of destiny
your north in every glass of south;
a stomach full of butterflies
to take you to places the maps won’t

Voyage, gift-wrapped in mystery,
each sunrise peeled apart with branching arms;
that new car smell
to steer you upon the magic
of rhyming skies and watercolour footprints –
companionship in purpose
embedded into the souls
of all who climb the peaks of your dreams beside you

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 22 July, 2016

CHANCE TO TASTE (HAIKU)

Crawl to hungry arms:
inside, the love that builds dreams
Taste the chance to fly

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 16 October, 2015

POSTERIOR SUFFERANCE

This night carries me,
blinded,
in the back pocket
of dirty minds and
shabby dreams where I,
flat, and molded,
press against this folded denim,
warm and splayed with
arms outstretched,
longing,
for another day, but

what if I turn my head
to over-peek the top
of these fraying jeans instead,
grasping threads
to keep me still within its seams
– will the exhilaration
of watching where I’ve
just this moment been
allow me inspiration
– asleep –
– awake –
to boldly look,
clinging to the back end of
these thoughts that write me,
penned in ink:
a pre-determined book?

Perhaps I should just
– winded –
forward face,
ignoring the sour stench
of this unmoving,
walking,
waking race,
stalking through the darkness
in a covered veil
at quiet pace,
destabilising future steps,
accepting this acquired taste,
processing my obsessive needs
and bathing clean my crumpled face
in chafing tears that fear progression,
awash, alone,
in one more nightly session.

Devoid of light,
hear, ye, the theme:
this narrow, stunted, damned depression,
the fabric of a self made bed –
this
bottomless pit without expression
unstitching dreams of fortune
as I swelter, melting hope
again,
apathetic,
white of noise,
inside my broken head.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 17 August, 2015

THE WORDS ARE

 

The words are there
wrapped around a tongue
as dream-hungry
as the one I have
of you

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 5 July, 2014

THOUGHT #452

Distracted by moments that could be, one is enlightened by thoughts that are.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 18 January, 2013

WOKEN

 

I swam in the dream
that drowned me
– once –
but I swallowed its soul
and floated away

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 14 November, 2011

THOUGHT #364

To surface from one’s dreams, one must sink deep into reality.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 23 July, 2011

THOUGHT #115

Vanishing dreams are purpose-built.

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 23 July, 2010

EVEN BEYOND DEATH

Concurrent sessions of geometric,
(explicitly whimsical)
liquified squares
arose from patterned nether regions
of ‘somewhere else out there’
in smothering particles of
truest radiant flares.

And sat I upon the visible dreamscape space
that existed no-where
but outside of my illusory plan,
and cherished, I, the pictorial preempted
in the moment of my after-life birthing
of which polite demand
again beseeched me ride.

Yet not a one of the graphical displays
(filtered fresh from infinite dimensions)
approached me like a complete whole
– neither a partial whole –
but as a synchronistic sphere
of clouded systemic rumours
made to halt to keen attention
but one light-bodied and mirrored virtual soul
such as the sporadically alter-egoed I.

Flowing from one source to the next,
beyond the simple measure of a single point
a blast of knowing flagged a recognition spark
that folded time and space
betwixt one universal structure
unto the
(not unlike symbiotic)
self instructioned mind –
and so to Mind Exist described another route
for Love to spread It’s fastest cycle;
birthing cells and growing rife,
to yield a fresh creation.

And hereupon I watch/ed with hunger
that which transpired time before,
providing what is harnessed now,
with will to still repeat again,
and so again to knot forever
into chains of new momentum;
weaving,
waving,
slipping through and marking too,
another path to God.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 11 June, 2009