Fragments of a Dream

Ray Bradbury said. “Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity.” This poem is an experiment in trying to write something that is a direct reflection of the mind in motion, a series of unfiltered observations, an attempt at mindfully catching fleeting ideas and feelings before they dissipate. I find freedom in creativity, in fact I often feel the most comfortable when I’m focused on the creative process.

Inspired by Bradbury’s book, Zen in the Art of Writing, and clearly influenced by my recent delve into the music and lyrics of Gord Downie and the poems of Wendell Berry. Berry’s work in particular calls to my desire for grounding and wisdom and his work often emphasises connection to the natural world and a slower, more deliberate way of being, offering me a sense of peace.

I’m

Fragments of a Dream

Don’t think, just type said the ghost in the flower

Oh great hypocrite how tired you seem

Grow old along with the lines upon my face, the cracks in this place called home

Stop and call it sacred

Zest and gusto call his name, corporate shill is a shame, like a flame the page is up in smoke

Smoke, toke, hope, is there heart in the temple

Don’t think

Just do, be, see, heal be free of fear

Did you lock up your heart long ago, and trade it for a handbag made of crocodile

Tears

We’ve all got them, even Keir, salt goblets of guilt and reparation, even Elon Musk has got a soul, love is not a fashion item that ever gets old, it does not have an instruction manual or come with a receipt, this gauntlet is far from fleet

Can you smell the ink, it is deeper than you think, Gord Downie sings trick rider in the rain, how have his words never come to me before the pain

It gives me blisters to write this way, let him vent into his defunct machine, brought back to life by the hand of the advocate, they could see the need to be touched by gladness, not revolutionary sadness, hold on tight the envelope needs licking, the clock is ticking, the bomb keeps clicking, the world imploded into the river of Moses.

Faster, faster go the keys, remember the time he begged you, please, please

Cowering under a table, wish it was a fable,

Don’t throw the tram, or battering ram of self-loathing, goading, God put us here at the start of eternity

She does things like that.

What do you love so much that you could burn it, is that love or hatred, or is it a snake biting the tale of another, in the name of someone’s ideal of a lover

Now they are saying the police are in the Quakers, not a Sting conversion, but a perversion, policing the thoughts in their heads.

If this piece had a chorus what would it be, “oh sweet Wendell Berry sing to me.”

©️ de Gruyther 2025