Lost in a dream?

The shades of night envelop the room is darkness, save for a silvery glow
that swathes my body.
Looking to the left my eyes avert reality.  The tension in my body rises,
in readiness.  My arms are fired by red and orange strokes, reaching out
flaring in desperation.
I lift my arms, slowly one by one, I feel small pin pricks in my muscles.
Showers of probing shots penetrate the muscle sheaths.
Electricity, without pain, catapults itself through the fibres of my hair.  In shock
curling strands cascade down my shoulders.  Following  bony outlines the blades of my shoulders remind me of who I am, the present of where I am. 
Standing, solo my mind alerts to a constant drumming, trying to wake me.  I turn to face the mirror.  It’s hard cold glare returns my gaze.

Front on my image is stark, staring me in the face.  My eyes no longer see me.
Retinas searching through eyelashess, filtered by mascara tinged hairs.   Again, I reach for my hair, caught in my hands, knotted and strangled. 
Freed only from this frozen moment when my gaze melts.

Too scared to look again, open eyes that are closed slits, I turn my body, my cheek raw and exposed, my chin cradled in the crook of my arm. 
Hands clinging to hair, the only solace of softness I can find. 
My skin aches, my face is taute.

The rising undertones of dawn crawl across the palette of early morning.
Face nestled into pillowed down I reach for the security of hair, head lifted,
eyes opening wide
sneaking, peeking.
my dream shattered by the fragility of life.  Another day, saved from my demons.
Bathed in dawn’s muted hues and gentle warmth, I slowly turn my head left, again.

Hockney and water

Blue clear crystal water drips through my dream
cavorting, cascading and bubbling with life.
I see pools, molecules of H2O gyrating, playing
hopscotching
on tiled floors, concrete floors supported by walls,
tiled walls and concrete walls – white, torquoise, aqua in colour,
supporting my body as I lie silently in bed, restless,
daring, urging to plunge into the abyss.

The pool swims in my imagination, clear and cool.
I wait, muscles eager to tread the surface
water waiting with open arms for my morning splash.

Abruptly the silence is broken.

Through my window I watch Anastasia
grey-haired and wizened
still resplendent in pink, soft cerise falling from her shoulders.
She passes the vivid orange couch, the abstract palm, as a
horse’s head
juts from the wall, above the zebra-striped plastic chair, reclined
to caress her brittle bones, her leather-weathered face stares straight ahead.

Awake now, I walk in anticipation
the shower, water, beckons as I brace and receive its cold welcome.

Leaning forward I wash and prepare for the splash. 
Each day I shower,
before I swim.
Solo, I stand, bouyed.
My body has no weight, my limbs hang limply.

Before I dive I soak up an indescribable energy, surging
from the water,
it swirls around my feet.  Between each toe
the bubbles massage my skin.

Suddenly the tension rises and I dive to the bottom of the pool
water rising as my body splashes its weight into the air above.

Like an arrow piercing towards its target
I rise again and grab the hardened eges,
wet and eager to parade.

On the yellow board I will parade, soaking up the solitude.
After another splash I relentlessly pound the clear blue water that surrounds me.

Guided by the black line I robotically move my arms, over and over
cupping and dragging my body. 
Oxygen depleted I persevere, my shoulder grazed by the daily stubble sprouting from my chin.
My arms bang against blue plastic, hard blue plastic curls.
Muscles cramped, legs moving like a tin-automaton.  
I wonder if freedom is enjoyment?  Am I punishing myself?  Self-torture?
My feet kick furiously, scared of being left behind.
 
 

Breastroke, backstroke, butterfly – arms and legs in unison lift me from the depths. 

Is someone watching?

I drag myself from the watery whirls,
swirls that lie in wait for my next entry.  Beside the pool
I lie and start to dream again.  There is no water in this dream.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

Beyond the table?

What does the future hold?

What is beyond?

the table?

my base, my ground , my body?

Speared by toes who search the earth

I pose, I suppose, as calves cross

expand and swell.

Muscles loose and falling foul, supported by osseous struts.