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Rated: E · Poetry · Children's · #1748954
This is very long! Should I turn it into a children's book? Includes yarn for a contest!
In Search of Mr. Sandman

Put a dream into your pocket?
It just cannot be done.
You must slide down every rainbow
to find where they’ve begun.

If you’re swift you just might catch one
on a fast unicorn,
but like elusive pots of gold,
hard to tell where they’re born.

And Dream Catchers are quite useless,
a really futile hoax,
ineffectually purported
by insomniac folks.

Find one underneath a tuffet?
Then soon you’ll be dreaming.
No? Miss Muffet’s scared them all a-
way with her loud screaming.

How I wish that I could purchase
some small measure of sleep,
for the hour, it grows so late,
and the night grows so deep.

In some far-off shop with gilded
letters on the window,
(don’t know how I got here, but I
know I’m welcomed in, though)

mesmerized by glow of gas light
lambent flames paint the walls.
In moccasins I tread lightly
down a little used hall.

At the end sits a gnarled Gnome,
a tiny wrinkled Faye,
who looks to be a hundred years
if he’s a single day.

With skin likened to brown leather
a winzed little elf,
he plucks from cobwebbed corner of
some dusty musty shelf

behind toenails and toadstools
and great leather bat wings,
between bloodroot and basil
and other curious things,

Categorized, alphabetized,
before “Eyes” and “EEL Tea,
his bony hands begin to sort
through what begins with “D.”

In soft pouches, in small pinches,
in tall glass jars opaque,
bound up in old holey socks,
or oily doily rag,

he discovers the remedy.
Exactly what I need.
For a pittance purchase packet,
one whole dram of dream seed.

And this precise guaranteed cure,
be it an herb or spice or smell,
in a box, bundle or bottle,
(for elves, they never tell)

it is wrapped up in brown paper
and tied with gray kite twine.
Clutch it tightly to my bosom
for now it is all mine.

At home I soon unwrap it and
discover tucked inside
a ticket to some far-off field
where golden peacocks glide

over pink patches of poppies
under an azure sky,
and peregrines, they pirouette,
and honeybees fly by.

My ticket’s no ingredients,
and calories are zilch.
It came with theft insurance, though,
so no one else could filch.

It says you must have clean white sheets,
preferably line dried,
a boring book to feed your need,
and warm milk by your side.

Then clutch so tightly this ticket
and close your eyes with care.
And when you open them again
you’ll find that you are there.

Where butterflies and Queen Anne’s Lace
paint the whole universe.
And all the sows have both their ears,
They’ve no need for a purse.

And buttercups are breakfast food.
You eat them on dry toast.
But Pickled Herring is the food
I really like the most,

for when you’re fishing for them there
you have no need of hook.
They simply jump upon your plate,
salted, already cooked.

And so obliged they have become
to be meal fit for King,
that while you’re saying “Grace” you must
remind them not to sing.

You must be careful, though if you
have brought along your yarn for knittin’
because the clover fields, they are
almost knee-deep in kittens.

I do not care that I can’t drive,
though taxi cab’s aren’t there,
For dragons take you on their back,
and so cheap is their fare.

The weather, it is always warm,
and even when it snows,
the snowmen are content to wear
vivid beachcomber clothes.

They’re tired of wearing tall black hats,
black coal for eyes and nose.
Two seashells shine like eyes so fine,
and seaweed hair, it grows!

Brochures regale the awesome tale
of ticket’s destination.
You don’t get there by car, but star!
Pick any constellation.

Oh, peanut butter sandwiches
are free while on this trip.
If you grow thirsty on the way
from the Big Dipper sip.

I shake my counterpane of dreams
and see what once was tatters
have now been quilted whole again
for “Finished Product” matters.

No longer sports it gaping holes
of ambiguities.
It seems the laws of flaws have changed,
now they’re known just to me.

Then lay I down upon the deck
tuck cover to my chin.
With sea salt sprayed upon my lips,
I little do but grin.

I’ve been awake for many days.
I’ve been awake for years!
So wearily I close my eyes
and then the captain steers

Through many gaping galaxies
and Milky Ways unknown.
It’s peaceful for it seems that we’ve
forgot the telephone.

My nightgown’s now a gold ball gown,
real stars in my tiara.
So brightly do they glimmer that
I’ve no need for a mirror.

I crawl into a big canoe
made of birch bark, I think,
and swiftly launch it right into
water dark as squid's ink.

Trees on the shore grow two by two,
each pair sports a hammock.
Each hammock has its own cuckoo
instead of an alarm clock.

An Afghan Hound named Henry
looked just like spilled sunlight.
He spoke and said that two mermaids
brushed out his coat each night.

A great gray ring of greasy sharks
each owned a pocket comb.
They said it was because they had
left their own teeth at home.

Oysters presented strands of pearls
and said, "Oh, What the heck!
We have no use for necklaces.
We haven't any neck!"

A King-sized bed walked on a cane,
(for he had just one foot)
and when he shook his shammied head,
I laughed, too, till I shook.

A shining silver straight pin
for aspirin did implore.
I looked at him so sharp and neat
and simply asked, “What for?”

“The doctors are not quite certain,
nor I,” is what he said,
"but it feels like many Angels
are dancing on my head."

The potatoes all wore glasses
to protect their many eyes.
A thin man on a tall ladder
was painting clouds on skies.

On every windowsill a pie
but all were square, not round.
All made from purple cantaloupe,
a fruit I’ve never found.

The wishing wells had bright pennies
of pink, orange, green, and blue,
but if you threw a brown one in,
they threw it back at you.

Pizza pie was not for eating
but a hat for your head.
With extra cheese, they made me sneeze,
and everyone’s was red!

The corn wore earmuffs on their ears,
though it was very warm.
Surprised I was, to say the least,
but it appeared the norm.

A needle sported just one eye,
but it was very big
so when the camels passed right through,
they’d room to dance a jig,

And every sock I’d ever lost
was hanging on a tree.
With Snip! and Clip! Sock Puppets soon
became the rage, you see!

And every blueprint that they had
was written down in pink
because beet juice was all they had
that they could use for ink.

Umbrellas were used by all because
The King was always raining.
The chocolate moose, he melted some
but he was not complaining.

Herds of nickels stood in a field.
The buffalo were grazing.
Day lilies bloomed, but just at night.
the whole place was amazing.

The comic pages made you cry
and all the news was funny.
You still got toys at Christmastime,
but from the Easter Bunny!

Oh! Cabbage was not eaten there
for he must use his head
to solve long division problems
perched on a lettuce bed.

Onions, they never made you cry.
They all told jokes instead
like “Knock. Knock. Who’s there? Don’t you know?
Orange it time you went t’bed?

A purple heart was pinned upon
a polar bear’s white chest.
He took my ticket, ate it up, and
said, “You’ve fulfilled your quest.”

Now Dean Koontz says, “It seems that dreams
are only Paper Doorways.”
Dyslexic that I am, I guess
my arrows point the wrong ways!

And on and on this nonsense went
until it must be said.
"The whole strange place was upside-down,
backwards, or just in bed."

Oh, so happy am I to be
free at last from this curse
of sitting up so awfully late
writing verse after verse,

a fate, it seems, much worse than death
that, sooner or later,
all poets presently find when
to them sleep won’t cater.

For so now I have discovered
the key to Sandman’s vault,
and next time if I cannot sleep
it’ll be nobody’s fault.
© Copyright 2011 chickpea a.k.a. Patricia Syner (chickpea at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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