A Dream Space Of The Mind Poem by Terence George Craddock (Spectral Images and Images Of Light)

I do not have a dream space
as do other people I know.

My dream space
is not a room,
nor could it ever be
despite the richness,

or tastefulness,
or simplicity;
or style,
or colour scheme,

or tidiness,
or untidiness;
or love attention
that had been lavished

upon this artificially
constructed space.

Where I would rest
relax rejuvenate myself
upon the close of day.

To me home is where
I hang my head
any clean restful dwelling
can serve this purpose.


Perhaps this
is a side effect
or residue
by product,

of travelling across
the world and back
several times, when

young to a certain degree.

But mainly
this is a love
of natural
unspoilt wilderness,

an appreciation
of great spirit
that invests
such places,

where my spirit
runs free
flies upon
an untamed wind.

This does not mean
that I do not
appreciate a well
furnished home.

In fact I do
have put down roots
several times,

furnished
these dwellings
in an elegant

though simple
Mediterranean style
upon the last
two occasions.


So where then
is my own refuge
my well beloved
dream space?

Not surprisingly
it encompasses
essential magic

of nature
that flows
within me.

But my dream space
does not exist
and has not been

constructed
on the imperfections
of the physical plane.

I walk between worlds,
see infinitely
past the surface,

refuse to submit
to the dictates
of a materialistic world

that grieves
the essence
of a spiritual reality

I value,
cling to

with an honour code
born in past ages.


To me truth
the written word
are sacred.

These are Buddhist
teachings
which I am aware of,

yet I approach
such sentiments
from the perspective
of the artist,

which predominately
lies dormant
within me.

This is part
of my true nature,
my essential being

that I cannot
compromise,
that which I know

and need not explain
to those who follow
a path I rarely walk

in this life
in this material age.


My dream space
is in my heart,
in my soul,

in the creative landscape
of my mind,
in the knowledge

revealed to me
within supposedly
random laws of chance,

given to those
that seek and knock
down the doors

of wisdom painfully given.


My dream space
is multi textural
contains limitless horizons

I oft may walk
with all the smell,
taste, sight, sound,
touch, noise, vibrations

which may merge
the rhythm
of my soul; with

the music of the spheres,
or the harmony of the universe.


This is a magic
place revealed to me
through the heritage

of ancestors
who embraced
such realms

sought the truth
power beyond
that which more

vision-less minds,
would define
as religion follow

with rote ignorance.

I have called it
a magic place,
but in fact

it is the one true reality

hidden behind the curtain

of this life we live
upon this earth.

It is reality more in tune
to how God created it,
such knowledge is never

given complete,
to any who walk
the mortal sphere.

An occasional
glimpse
into the future

into that which is invisible

to most,
is merely
my birthright,

I remember the future dreamed
when it eventuates.


I can create
my own worlds within
my imagination.

I can create it
so that it is seen,
felt, touched, smelt by me.

This I do often
with my most perfect
thought which this world

with present materialistic
values is not perceptive of.

I rarely write
share these things
at present for truth

beauty which bent
materialistically
lost seldom see,

still should not be mocked,
for these qualities spring
from a eureka sacred,
perhaps God given source.


Shared is that which
I do translate,
often masked,

or in the form of poetry,
or short stories

long since given back
to the flame.

I sometimes write
that which can be seen
visualized by a friend

who I may decide
to share a poem
or poems with.

This can be in any shape,
size, situation, colour,
place or form I deem fit;

or the piece
being formed dictates.


It can contain
drama, excitement, peace,
tension, morals, codes,
wisdom, simplicity, frustration,

complications, prophesy,
horror, which I wish
to visit upon it in
any particular genre.

I may meditate
upon it,
explore simile metaphor,
play with words;

or become
a dissatisfied bore
destroy a piece I adhore.


Choice is mine,
for I have
no one to please,
decision totally
belongs to me,

my aim is not
presently to create
to publish, or

even to preserve;
but merely to survive
in a world in which

I walk ever out of time;
to the beat of an unheard
distant drum the mainstream

does not perceive follow
in my lifetime
perhaps never shall.


I could give you
a glimpse into
such a world from

a single diverse poem

like ‘A Season Of Growth’
which is
five hundred and ten
lines long

written as the first
key poem in a trilogy
transmuting time and space.

The poem begins
as follows;
I could give a basic

explanation
that would run
into three pages at least.

Better I give only
the beginning;
then close off this world

as suddenly as it appeared
within the normality of your life...


“Remember chill child channelling infamous ice
listening intently as if awaiting what
among helm heights of wind blown crags?
Straining to catch each Woden word, dripping
slowly from thrive thawing ice.
Grim grain weathered wheat waiting
for sun warmth water.
Hopelessly longing for season of growth
to burst forth heralded by....


Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Written in July 1998.