A Series of Poems About Someone Who Will Never Read Them



A Series of Poems About Someone Who Will Never Read Them
Jack Wiese

We’re Here?!
I had an extremely powerful dream last night. One of those kinds that becomes imprinted in your mind. Not like one of the infinite number of dreams we have and instantly seem to forget. This dream saw me from a deep sleep to a semi-conscious state to fully awake and left me in a state I cannot entirely describe. Immediately upon my wokeness I felt an intense urge to write. Perhaps this urge stems from my disillusionment with my newfound reality and my desire to retain in some degree what is it that occurred to me and to engage with it a little longer. Perhaps to create a world in which I can escape and be reminded of this former companion who had unknowingly helped me through my darkest hour because, I know one day she, what she meant to me, what she did for me, will fade entirely from active memory. Before it is too late, I must create a testament to remind me. I will never be able to create anything impactful enough that is comparable in magnitude to the impact that she had on my life but I certainly owe her and others like her the effort. I must create this testament to her so that I may remember the effect that she had on me, but also so this may serve as a catalyst for remembrance to others. A remembering of someone who has escaped your active thoughts, but whose impact remains, even if they remain too distant to be notified of your gratitude. This is in essence, a series of poems about someone who will never read them.

Grow Up, Forget!
As a boy grows into a man,
they forget childhood bliss, the days playing in the sand.
Disconnected from the past they grow,
into a new age and into a new status quo.
New roles he must fill,
no longer is he permitted sweet innocent thrill.
His toes must reach to the end of his newly fastened shoe,
if he is unsatisfied, he is told “Shut up, make do!”.
So becomes first jaded then faded the childhood wonders of happiness and joy,
symbolized as a favorite old toy.
We frantically covet and collect these objects and things,
but in our conditioned position, our soul may forget how to sing.
We think through our amassing of goods,
We can save those feelings of our boyhoods.
These toys and other boyhood treasures become vessels,
carrying an essence, the childlike innocence in all its bells and whistles.
This is why these things have such power,
as they represent us in, and seem to strike us in our vulnerable hour.
An ignorant joy, a sweet happiness, lunges into our thoughts,
when we see a faint resemblance, a race car, a familiar face, a robot.
Our forgotten memories are seemingly plucked by a hand with lightning speed,
and plumped into the immediate conscious as if in dire need.
Such moments strike us when we least expect,
like a train they come, with a design to only crash into us and leave us in a wreck.
They come and leave in such a rush,
and leave any heart warm to the touch.
Any nostalgic object or vague resemblance can procure such a result,
temporarily confusing our senses as if our eyes had been strewn with salt.
Such an effect on me was evoked from my dream last night,
to preserve its essence, I now fervently write.
Its imprint is still fresh on me,
thanks to time, unlike your being in my active memory.
As I am the boy growing into a man,
made to forget due to society’s demands,
you made me remember the sweet innocent joys of life,
the precious feelings in the dream impervious to strife.
In part this writing is a thanks to you,
for the unspoken impact and for the companionship true.
And though you may never read this series of poems,
I hope you somehow know, thanks to you with myself I can now feel at home.

No!
It must have been late in the night when you visited my mind and me,
the mere fact you did is quite a peculiarity.
Your being and your essence had largely escaped my conscious mind,
due most likely to separation and time.
It is perhaps your immediately recognizable aura that struck me so,
for years you had a power over me I don’t think I’ll ever fully know.
And though I have not talked to you in years,
writing this in many points has brought me to tears.
My response to your presence in my dream evoked in me,
a desire to write with a purpose seemingly of spontaneity.
I feel an intense purpose to write of your oneiric visit,
so perhaps I can have a personal escape conduit.
To have a place where I can be reminded of your essence,
An escape from the world which stripped me of my adolescence.
Despite the metaphysical nature of this encounter perhaps it is the last time I will ever see you, such a thought brings me a degree of sadness but due to our diverging paths it is likely true.
For a brief shining moment,
my biggest problem was merely a speck in memory, distant.
A ship sailing away,
alas it would return when it became day.

Why?
The form of you and the dream did take,
was not ostentatious or absurd in model or make.
There was not a thing which could be deemed immediately dreamlike innate,
there was no upside down moose filled lake.
There was only a boy and a childhood companion,
happy to be united again.
She had the fairest and most enticing voice,
to feel affection towards her he had no choice.
Such a condition was recreated in my oneiric trance,
with our soft voices, we did dance.
Perhaps this is more insane, dreams are supposed to be out of the cusp of reason and ridiculous, in nearly every aspect, entirely frivolous.
They are strictly distinct from reality I have been told,
perhaps that is a lie I had been sold.
Perhaps this is why when we have dreams which most resemble our real or desired selves,
we are quick to preserve and place their essences upon memorial shelves.
We try not to contaminate them with active thought,
But spontaneously new details are sought.
These preserved dreams grow and explore,
Until we recognize them no more.

When…
Dreams tend to be a fragmented reminisce not a story of linearity,
but one of general occurrences and spontaneity in memory.
This is the way in which I remember my dream last night,
a situation of fragments in a fight.
Today I must abstain from any other stimuli so that your last impression I may record,
quickly before the next departing flight from my memory you board.
One last homage,
one last emotional and literary assemblage.
One last visit I hope to pay to you through this poetry,
as you have paid to me.

It’s Not So Bad!? Correct!
I cannot recall in chronological order,
a series of events that did occur.
But instead I remember it in moments which did impact me the most,
times in which the heavenly visitor enlightened her oneiric host.
Onto me she did confer,
a flurry of potent emotions who’s company over sadness and others I happily prefer.
These emotions ignorant of all other negative feelings,
to anger, jealousy, loneliness, never kneeling.
Despite these emotions being filled with effervescence and energy,
they remained calm and secure as affection can be.
In my dream shared was a bond where we were secure and calm,
between the unworldly visitor and I not a single qualm.
The kind of calm where both are secure in themselves and the other’s thoughts and the kinship, the kind of calm that did not require a constant reaffirming or hand on the hip.

In… The End I Suppose?
You lied next to me and I next to you,
we stared into each other’s eyes despite a large part of us being in view.
I believe we were in a park but such are dreams,
that one cannot truthfully recall the construction or color of its seams.
All I can confidently describe in writing is how beautiful it was,
how I was feeling a sense of boyhood innocence just because.
A figment just so happened to visit me,
I believe we were laying in conversation under a tree.
The line between my reality and dream was so stirred,
to you I physically spoke a great many word.
To each other we spoke in the softest way with the kindest tone,
just hearing a likely idealized recollection of your voice made me feel not so alone.

It’s All Over Now! Again?
We were two shooting stars who bore similar paths with another,
each of our lights brightening the other.
Alas, our courses with life did change,
but know in my heart you do remain.
Even if my active mind does not remember you so,
I write this series of poems so even if you never read,
how much you meant to me, you will always know.
And so I may be reminded,
of our precious time together spent.

This is Our Stop?!
In one fragment piece of my dream,
your immediate presence departed me it did seem.
Where I truly slumbered, there I was,
in my room, but hearing a great buzz.
Upstairs, I could hear someone was there,
I yelled and with the voice I conversed, it was incredibly fair.
I recognized her to be the same childhood friend,
as in the other fragments which will never see amends.
For a time we did converse,
and exchanged romantic pleasantries ill rehearsed.
As to the contents I cannot recall,
that being said, this was the most clear fragment of them all.
I remember her saying she would meet me outside my door,
I anticipated my jaw would fall to the floor.
The voice declared its impending arrival,
the steps were near so I opened the door without a thought trivial.
Now opened, through the door I could see no one was there,
an immediate sense of reality filled the air.
As I entered a conscious state, nearly awoke,
I stood in a house where no one but I spoke.

When… Will I See?
With her gone I was left to ponder the rhyme and reason,
if I should shrug and carry on with the summer season.
Act as if nothing had happened to me,
which is what my course of action tends to be.
But instead, I felt inclined towards a different path,
my mind washed and rinsed as if the dream was a metaphysical bath.
Distractions now seemed futile,
It may be this way for a while,
a written account I must compose,
in a sense where time has yet to be froze.
Made up of fragments just like my dream,
memory as the thread connecting the seams.
I do not feel cold, I do not feel lonely,
but I feel one desire only.
To write a fragmentary account,
of an experience I may never surmount.

I Saw You There!
I remember the signing of the birds,
the softness of your words.
I can’t quite recall the blanket pattern,
but I know you are not of this Earth, neighbor of Saturn.
A celestial aura you did hide,
behind your fleshly appearance and guide.
You cast onto me what I cast upon you,
as we had done in our youth true.
But we were adults as we are now,
you with the same glowing smile and me with the same half-crooked brow.
We displayed the same youthful bliss,
it was all spoken, I cannot recall a kiss.
To my great dismay, you took a picture of me.
still locking eyes, we laughed playfully.
We needn’t have a care,
because to us, we were the only ones there.

Who Dies in the End?
Writing about what occured to me in my oneiric state,
brings me to some internal debate.
Was what I wrote an actual happening in my dream,
or was it all a fabricated scene?
Small details spontaneously recalled,
slightly dubious in their subconscious origins and withdrawal.
It calls into question being versus essence,
further jaded by the vague and imaginative memory of adolescence.
To exist in full reality,
is to be of being, of actuality.
What you exactly are, what it actually is,
without any sense of reminisce.
To exist in memory is to be of essence,
details are added and withdrawn by memory’s poetic license.
One’s essence is as impactful as being if not more,
your being is the one that may come before,
but through learning of you and time,
the repetition and rhyme,
you create your essence for those around.
An essence can have an impact that hits far harder than any pound.
As for my childhood companion this was the case,
while in memory I may have peered at her through a slightly curved vase,
Her impact upon me would not be up for debate.
In her essence, a testament I must create.

Welcome Good Sir!
With removed pride, with precious prose,
I venture to compile and compose,
a fragmentary account of the stories of her,
and to emulate to some degree, the level of emotions she did stir,
in me, to a previously unknown degree.
In my youth she drove away misery.
I was a rocking ship in the stormy sea,
she was the lighthouse guiding me,
the rocks along the coast represented the world,
thanks to your guidance, I felt brave and my sails unfurled!
Together we navigated through these dire straits,
and while I took on and few scratches and scrapes,
I was in much better shape than the wrecks I could see through the fog,
corpses of crying men and hulls of rotting log.
Of course, her light could only go so far,
and it did diminish, which I did not find bizarre.
She had led me afar enough from any peril,
I would not have to cling to in the frigid sea, a barrel.
Thanks to her, a majority of my childlike joy and wonder had been retained,
and can now be deployed without refrain,
when I write, when I dream, and when I create.
Oh it’s amazing,
how without even realizing,
someone can do something so great.

My Friend… You Look Sick!
For a time I wondered and thought,
but then I became further distraught,
at the realization that last night,
was likely the last I’d ever see you in any light.
but I am at peace and so are you,
because different paths and things we have to do.
I do not think about you often,
but the impact you have on me it does not soften,
for you helped guide me through those tumultuous coming of age years,
I am extremely thankful and at times it brings me to tears.
But I am not one to reminisce,
I just hope you somehow know this;
the impact your essence had left on me,
in both the oneiric visit and reality,
and what was imbued in me,
my fundamental sense of security,
allowed me to grow,
into the man you’ll never know.
In your eternal debt I find myself,
alas, I must remain silent to preserve the pride on the shelf.

What?
As is often the case in those days,
our interactions awkward, not quite knowing what to say.
But I could tell your conscious was clear,
what you confessed to me, sincere.
The slightest prospect filled me with excitement,
I highly doubt I made good attempts to hide it,
At a time when I became disillusioned with all,
you unknowingly picked up a call,
from my subconscious crying for salvation,
in preserving its ability for innocent fascination.

What’s the Magic Word?!
I can recall to a certain degree of clarity,
a time you got chicken wings with me,
it seems so vulnerable, so silly now,
but moments like those somehow,
had an impact much further than,
simply talking and just eating hen.
For a time your facial expressions to me,
were a source of energy and mystery.
An endless barrage of new artworks,
which I must decipher.
Analyzing God’s own brushstrokes,
I was left to indulge,
visually exploring the contours,
of your face,
your pronounced cheekbones,
your wry smile enveloped by sweet thin lips,
your bony hips,
your magnetic blue eyes,
your infinite freckles,
all in front of me,
I could not quite figure out,
What they meant,
but I knew what they meant to me.
your features beckoned me,
to explore within,
a metaphysical inquiry,
into not only you,
but myself, I did begin.
These physical features,
which set you apart,
ignited the curiosity of my heart
our lanky frames making us,
centers for all eyes,
but it did not matter,
for we only looked,
into each other’s.

I Know Them Too!
It seems peculiar how when time goes on,
our memory must make new words for the song,
to preserve for eternity in rhythm and rhyme,
a supreme confidence is this memory and mime,
confident in their origin, of their birth,
convinced they have a righteous place on this earth,
among the other truths eternal,
as if written in some religious journal.
How are we to separate fact from fiction,
in our own memory and moral conviction,
in a place where one cannot doubt themselves,
they must dig countless, fathomless wells,
in their own minds,
to find a truth of some kind.

Oh…Really?!
Some struggle I find in writing the accounts of you,
who were you really and what did you really do?
Were you but a passing figure teeming with mystery in my life,
a near apparition I fastened as the answer to my strife?
Were you a fiddler while I was left to play the fife?
My convictions must have some basis in reality,
or am I led to believe that cannot be.
There are memories of you I cannot deny,
a few nights I let the colors of my spirit fly.
But some memories seem vague and undefined to me,
is this just the natural course of memory?
To create anew when the holes are gaping,
so when memory may squint, it sees no necessary undertaking.
I believe we tend to idealize those we loved,
in memory, even if pushed or shoved.
Maybe this slight veneer of fantasy is a byproduct of the time I knew her,
of a time in my youth with free vestiges of boyhood wonder,
that tended to surface at random,
applying new filters to my personal canon.

What… Say You?
These fragments bore similarities which I did not notice before,
they vaguely resemble each other when laid together upon the floor,
broken and bickering as they were,
a fragmented vision I saw of her,
as if looking in a broken mirror,
her face was jaded, but clear.
are you truly her,
or are you an apparition,
I have woven with memory and word?

The New Nero?
What produces in me the most frustration,
and imposes upon me an element of indignation,
is my inability to with great detail reminisce,
about your precise persona and this;
your golden smile.
I can find a picture in this age instantly of course,
but I would not want to digress to such a source,
because I would not be able to feel the radiating gleam,
and its tempting dreamlike beams.
Asides, I do not want to be reminded of it so,
of its existence I do not any longer need to know.
I wish to sit and think for a while,
to ponder what, in addition to, the smile,
it all was exactly that made me so happy,
yes , it was the positive emotions experienced,
but there was more to it than this!
In you I saw, an invitation to you world,
your white and blue eyes pearled,
beckoned me inside,
you promising, to be my guide.
Perhaps in your reality,
you were of an angelic visiting party.
You spoke kindly and had a graceful demeanor,
and pastures ever greener.
You always spoke your mind,
which bothered me some of the time,
as you did not think highly of some,
but I did not care,
I was on the run.
For a time, you were my shelter,
harboring me until dispersed the weather.
You were never afraid to laugh,
you’d punch me if I called you a giraffe.
Hopefully thanks to these poems,
these traits of you have an eternal home.
I rarely think of you,
but when I do,
I will return to this memory somewhat true,
when the sky no longer seems blue.

Play it Again!
The warp and the weft intersect,
to form the holy dialect,
an active conversation,
between fact and adaptation,
reality and fantasy interwoven, form your essence,
Seen through an eye of innocent adolescence.
Nice Try?
When I can see,
what it would be,
you unknowingly spoke to me,
the words of a siren,
the eternal spell,
but cast not into an eternal hell,
but into a celestial cell,
away from reason,
a place knows no season,
only we existed there,
lone denizens you and I,
and consciousnesses laid bare.

New Stunts!
I must weave in memory,
a blanket for you.

Besides, We All Die in the End!
Involuntary memory,
she struck me in the night,
the sweet stimuli.
A new approach I must try,
a new path lit by her light,
but somehow she was always out of my vision,
you fully do remain.
I can see glimpses and g

About this poem

This poem, is a fragmentary attempt at remembrance, of a childhood companion who the author had largely forgotten and who visited him in a dream the previous night.

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Written on July 19, 2022

Submitted on July 21, 2022

Modified on March 05, 2023

20:20 min read
5

Quick analysis:

Scheme Text too long
Closest metre Iambic hexameter
Characters 19,610
Words 4,065
Stanzas 24
Stanza Lengths 2, 2, 41, 20, 20, 11, 14, 13, 10, 21, 17, 17, 25, 25, 21, 11, 37, 15, 20, 10, 40, 20, 3, 9

Jack B. Wiese

Jack Wiese is a fashion designer and creative. more…

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