To answer the question that will be obvious to fans of William Shakespeare, Yes! I often use words and phrases in lines from Hamlet for the titles of my poems. This title is from the "To be or not to be" speech and helps to show that Hamlet has a fear of death he is unable to overcome in the moment. The meaning of Hamlet's soliloquy should not be lost in my poem.
Soooo...from whence did this poem come? And wherefore cam'st it? I guess that my mind is still weary of the nature poems and is taking a break. Therefore, I continue with the thieving of ideas from The Purple and Blue Collection of Poems. The deal is that whatever page I turn to in it, I write about the idea on that page. I don't look at the poem's title unless it is on that page. I do not see what the rest of the poem is about unless the entire poem is on the page. In other words, I am trying to guarantee that I will make something new from the old trash that I am sifting through. Today's poem is a complete and total reworking of one-third of a poem that I wrote in 1986. Please let me know what you think! And, as always, ENJOY!
Oh, yeah! The picture above is a close-up of a flower that is blooming on a tree at the city park/fairgrounds. I think it is some sort of mutated apple tree. Last year, it had a small green fruit on it that was shaped like an apple, but the fruit was very bitter and pulpy. Yep, I took a bite. Good thing it wasn't poison, huh? To the poem-------------
What Dreams May Come
(Part II)
I hear Mother calling for dinner,
And I spring from a war-torn play town.
The first child to his chair is the winner
So I fling plastic Army men down.
I run to the washroom unhindered,
Just as quick as my short legs can get.
As best as I ever remembered,
No sibling has beaten me yet.
I douse the soap to get it wet,
Dry my hands that are barely damp,
Race down a hallway I’ve yet to forget,
To a dinette lit by a lamp
Where I sit in a room of blank faces,
‘Round flowers yellow like the sun
In off-white ceramic vases,
Each full of bright blooms except one.
Who sat in those empty spaces?
I think of some names but have none.
I only remember flowers,
Daisies we gathered one by one,
And building Tinker Toy towers.
Did that man really call me his son?
He was among the very best of men,
This faceless being I cannot recall,
He placed our daisies in a tin
And nailed the pitcher on the wall.
It hung too high to sprinkle with water,
So the daisies never did last
Nor the yearnings he had for a daughter.
Why did they all dry up so fast?
Here’s the Bible that sat on his dresser
With Samson in blue and in chains,
The seal of St. Edward the Confessor,
And a tree leaved with all sorts of names
On the first pages of that holy tome.
He had pictures of kids in black frames
And an embroidered “God Bless This Home,”
A three-foot stack of popular board games
In this house where the buffalo roam,
And I wonder, still I wonder,
Where have all these vestiges gone?
In the nook between the bedrooms
Hung a gold-framed triple mirror.
Its reflections were all costumes.
So it makes the past no clearer.
Perhaps it’s plain in the garden
And I dawdle there for hours
Until someone asks, “Beg pardon?
Are you the old man who picks the flowers?”
“The one who plucks the daisies is not me.
That silly man is hoary and bony.
You’ll find him up the live oak tree
Or astride a painted pony.”
I think that that is what I said.
I don’t remember much past that.
I feel such a weight on my head.
I wish I could remove my hat,
But a feller needs a cap on a trip
And I am a man in motion.
I think it’s safer on a ship
Whose paint is blue as the ocean.
But still, the memories tumble
Before waves of an epochal sea
Like the daisies in Pa’s pocket crumble
When I bounce on his ageless knee.
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