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Droems: Dream Poems

Updated on June 3, 2013

TALE: a message that tells the particulars of an act or occurrence or course of events.

DREAMS: a series of mental images and emotional occurrence while asleep.

POEMS: a composition written in metrical feet forming rhythmical lines.


DRALE: this is a dream transformed into a tale

DROEM™: this is a dream transformed into a poem

We have emotional mental images coming together in composition using metrical measurements and rhyme. They are poems with a fairy tale twist or a matrix accent. They are the essence of dreams.

Droems can be presented as 'snips' of a tale or recordings of journeys in poetic free-style. They can be abstract gluings of chopped-up events often captured upon awakening with an added jolly or grim side of rhyme.

This process makes me think it's a chrysalis of real dreams. It's the transformation of the caterpillar into a butterfly, the metaphorisizing for carrying out purpose for its existence.

Droems and Drales can be composed of a variety of subjects from gruesome such as Edgar Allen Poe to “Mary Had a Little Lamb or Margaret. But in dreams her fleece is never white as snow or is it white at all? It can be polka-dotted instead or a dress hanging with diamonds from an old lampshade. They have their own specific genre and you never know what you're going to get. Often dreams are so jumbled, having a sense you may never find, but must be if composing a Drale.

Keeping a dream journal bedside is an intelligent way to capture the essences that disinegrate upon a sunlight room, or traveling up the spiral from Delta Theta to Alpha Beta. And it's effective for capturing the tiniest details often over-ridden by main events.

It's during the Alpha state where we fall into a special stage. It's the in-between 'awake' and 'drifting off' to sleep. Often, this is our dreamland welcome, where dreams prefer to occur.


Innocent festival or not?

Why buried in a secret strange plot?

Seen was a ritual area with Druid types

And taintly laced rot


Negativity rumbled in mixing up louder

Next a hooded leader poured up a dusting powder

A metal disk swung as he churned and churned

The fat wooden spoon was worn and burned


Evil leaked the moon surely

Saw those eyes...

Grandma was converted

With a zombified guise!


I wrapped up the wind to scurry me afar

Down hallways and by-ways till my legs turned raw

It was a graceless festival that I saw

Where souls were lost forever forever withdrawn


The pipe I moved let the rain flowth in

The fountain was as dry as a weathered-boned wren

For to take to swim in this charming location

Solders thee to acts of creation

Suddenly, the summer's rain filled it with water

I contracted fears of pouring forth more of daughter

Cats may drown in this deep-watered well

Still my hand was bit underneath the bitter wet swells

The pain that arose was too unsplendid to speak

Still attached and deranged to a feline hawk's beak

She welded onto me as my whole arm beset

I cried as I pryed the jaws off of that black midinette


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