Image result for night nature

the dark, dreamy night

stars glistening upon a large blanket

crickets chirping their musical melody

once heard never again in the morning

raindrops running down a rusty pipe

NaPoWriMo #5 

REQUIREMENTS: Write a poem about a slice of the natural world that you have personally experienced using poetic license.

Dream Retrieving

Today you can write about anything, in whatever genre or form, but your post must mention a dark night, your fridge, and tears (of joy or sadness; your call). Feel free to switch one ingredient if you have to (or revisit one from previous trio prompts).


The more somber part of my experiences takes me to a dark, spooky, and desolate ghost town…

An eerie breeze can be heard. The metal sign hanging from the porch of an old shophouse claps in the wind.
Suddenly inside the shophouse, I am standing in front of a crazy old hillbilly sitting in a rocker; he passes me a scratch off lottery ticket; the scene is very short and vague; I believe there is a fire burning in a grate behind us, shining across the wooden floor panels. Then it is morning the next day and police are doing investigations at the place. What happened between me getting the lottery ticket and the lawmen showing up? Did the hillbilly kill me or give me an illegal ticket? I remember him having a red plaid shirt on and sporting a pretty healthy looking countryman beard. He didn’t seem to be there when the police were searching the place so maybe he’s a wanted man who has run off somewhere.

Next, after easing into my rapidly deteriorating dream state, I am standing at the end of a hallway that is clearly like the one in my current home; there are two rooms on either side; one is my actual room and the other is my sisters; it is a debate in my head between going in one or the other. When I enter the room on the right, the door suddenly breaks off its hinges and hangs there. The first thing I see is an open fridge without the freezer on top; my dad has his head in it and is eyeing some donuts on the top door shelf. I grab a sticky chocolate one at the same time he does, our hands nearly colliding with each other. I now look at the hanging door and don’t believe I can stay in this room. I discuss it with dad and mom, who is also in the room. They tell me to go try the other room across the hall.

As I stand in the foyer of the second room and stare into the entrance on the right, I feel a lot more content and joyous; Mom is standing behind me in the hallway and seems happy as well; I believe there are tears of joy in her eyes as she stares back at me. I walk into the room, which seems endless, and start admiring the square pictures and notes on the walls, some of them featuring moments from my childhood, stuff dedicated to me. On the first wall to the left as I enter the domain is a corkboard with an open card tacked to it:

Happy Birthday, Matt


“Mike” is obviously written in my dad’s handwriting but I still think it is actually from my Uncle Mike. As I walk further on towards the “end” of the room, I see a message on the wall from a Kaley, and I immediately think it is from Kaley Cuoco (my mind conjures up an image as well).

Soon, as I turn to the right wall behind me, I come to a note talking about a writing program that is trying to get to D.C and get accepted to write articles for the United States government. The note also says they need volunteers and I feel terrible for not seeing this earlier.

Suddenly, I am taken out of my room and end up inside an indoor football field. Barack Obama and his crew are standing on the far right side of the field (near my right eye) and on the left side, the “writers” are buried underground and sticking their arms out the soil into the air, trying to get Obama’s attention. Obviously Barack doesn’t notice them and has a smug grin on his face.


Another sharp twist of my swirling vortex of thoughts takes me to a much darker moment in the sleepy town of Spring Arbor where I used to live. In an old Buick parked in the driveway of a grey house I moved out of four years ago, I am sleeping face down, as if crazily drunk. The car is from from a John that my mom was seeing for a while but is now a distant friend. The Buick was a hunk of junk and broke down not long after it was used.

Now I see “Dad”, who looks like Ted Beneke from Breaking Bad, coming out of the house.

Then I am inside the house, going into my room down the hallway on the right. Around the “L” shaped corner of the room on the left, I see my bed made with a sign on the end board:

God Gave Us Christ’s Child

Wow. What a message to see in my dreams. That’s surely a sign (no pun intended). That never existed there in real life so something truly remarkable is going on here.

Now, sitting in the front row of the auditorium of my high school, I am attending a play or dance recital; I am near the railing on the right. My dad comes by (not Ted Beneke) to pick me and my sisters or something special up, I’m not quite sure. Someone is expertly showing off their Beethoven skills on stage.

The curtain closes and the black dressed ballerinas exit stage left. Curtain opens again and white dressed ballerinas have taken the stage. Interesting – it’s like evil turning to good.


Daily Prompt 10/30/14