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The Blog Bog
The Mag Rack
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HOW OFTEN I DREAM
I.
Home
but dreaming of horses
and riding
Sunny the grumpy palomino
Mr. T and Bootjack both spooked unlucky bays
Dream Catcher the goofy App mare
all gone now
eight hours in the saddle and open country
stiff old chaps friendly
rain shaped hat
good weather, bad
doesn't matter the old cowboy says
nothing you can do but enjoy it
the squeak of smooth saddle like an old chair
smell of leather sweet hay and horses
how quiet I was then
alone
and not much talk from the animals
only on Christmas eve
Mo used to say before she died
except for the ranch owners
best job I ever had
found my snaffle and bridle
green in a bag on a shelf
my old saddle
somewhere
lost
how often I dream
of horses
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HOW OFTEN I DREAM
II.
Can't make out the year
skinny and denimed
collar up
smoking away
sometimes I'm hitching
or driving
or riding
the leaving more vital than the destination
sometimes alone, sometimes Doug is along
it's Maine it's Colorado
it's nowhere I know and dark
I walk the white line to avoid falling off
rain and then I'm in a car and I'm scared
this one always ends
I wake up cloudy heavy aching
how often I dream of old roads
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HOW OFTEN I DREAM
IV.
Can you pick your dream
shade and white sand and sea sparkles
cool beach breezes
vast vista of whitecaps
the humid salt air
smell of tropics
outside the only place to be
tan tshirted and sandalized
waterspouts and false horizons
what a hoot the hurricane
madness at the tiki bar
palm fronds flying all hell broke loose
thunder on the tin roof
how relaxed I was then
even as the money ran out
who wouldn't want to go back
how often I dream of beaches
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HOW OFTEN I DREAM
III.
Last night the dream was mountains
a hike past rough pole gazebos
perched on quiet cliffside trails
to the white bedrock top
smell of pitch pine
the storms blow up the valley
under hemlock dark
cathedral canopy
(mostly gone now
melting fog thinning away)
the hushed voice stream bank
the hidden waterfalls
someplace to swim
peregrine's distinct kee
deer among the shagbark
and a faint call of belay
too far off to bother
the crowds in the leafy cool summer
worse the spectacular fall
took a group of city teens up the crag
some lost their shoes between boulders
and cried
not a bad job
still
how often I dream of mountains
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HOW OFTEN I DREAM
V.
Can't move
wedged in the corner of the wheelhouse
heavy seas
foul weather gear
survival suited
then calm open water
on deck in the sun
making good time
logging hours at the wheel
if the captain's willing
nights rigging the spring lines
drinking beer still swaying on my feet
diesel smell of the engine room so clean you could
painting the hull suspended
in a bosun's chair
changing the zinc
the captain splicing lines
or showoff knots
one foot on the wheel
just for the hell of it
the low pay didn't bother me then
the SRO don't call it a hotel
where I stayed that year
the Mexicans one senorita I remember
but that's another story
wouldn't stay there again
it's gone now
liked that job but
almost winter winds
straight northerly frigid channel
pulling navaids
chipping ice off the deck
never be warm again
I thought
how often I dream of the sea
Gregg Weatheby
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