CHOOSING SIDES (a tentative title)

Late at night with burning eyes
trying to write some poetry
which I can read and not despise.
Nothing good will come to me.
Imagery swirls in my tired mind.

In my recliner, pad in lap,
pen is poised for words to come.
Moths attack the window tap, tap, tap.
I yawn as head and arms turn numb.
The waking world is left behind.

The segue into dream is smooth,
It seems my walk has tired me out.
So since I have nothing to prove
pace slows to match the woods about.
To its quiet beauty I'd been blind.

The oaks are wide, the pines are tall
within this remote sylvan keep.
In my dream I see it all
as time slows to a mere creep.
I find my knees no longer grind.

A shallow stream comes into view
whose riffles glisten in the sun
which shines with light both pure and new
on wooded creek banks steep and dun.
It twists and turns like wild wood bine.

There's no bridge to the other side.
I find a ford and splash across.
My wanderlust won't be denied.
The wind picks up, the high limbs toss.
The crossing doesn't treat me kind.

For now my knees assert their pain
as I approach a far side bluff.
Anybody who was sane
would turn and say this is enough.
That's not the way I am designed.

Because there's something on the hill
which dense woods make indistinct.
I climb upward by force of will;
this trek and I are somehow linked.
Like a contract no one signed.

Decreased distance now reveals a wall
tall and plumb and made of stone.
Beyond it I can't see at all.
It looks as old as fossil bone.
Nowhere is it undermined.

My hand traces the joints and mossy face.
No way to scale such edifice
which bars my way with silent grace.
I've never seen a thing like this,
it has no end that I can find.

By mere hunch I proceed right.
A staff somehow now is in my hand.
The wall's horizon's beyond sight
as it curves its way through this rough land.
To follow it I'm now resigned.

Now and then from the other side
I think I hear a muffled voice.
On the breeze it seems to ride.
Does it mourn or laugh, maybe rejoice?
It doesn't seem to be unkind.

I trudge on and I trudge on
compelled to see the other side.
Onward, onward I am drawn.
What secret does this rampart hide?
From what quarry had it been mined?

Until at last I see a change
as the land becomes more flat,
and somehow the daylight becomes strange.
In the distance...what is that?
Is it a trick on weary mind?

My limping legs carry me near.
At last I see that it's a gate.
Just then I jump an antlered deer
which bounds, then stops and seems to wait,
his regal head heavily tined.

Finally before the gate I stop.
It's stout cedar and rusted steel.
(still cannot see over the top)
It has an ethereal type feel
like a forgotten relic left behind.

Murmur of voices constant now,
still too low to understand.
They're not familiar, yet somehow
their sound enchants this remote land
eclosing it within an aural rind.

As sun sets toward the pallisade
I spy a huge knocker on the gate,
a lion's head of iron made.
I reach toward it, i hesitate.
Questing hand tingles me, I find.

The voices grow into a chant
a hymn to greet the end of day?
I feel like a mendicant
imploring that he wants to stay
regardless what I leave behind.

I steel myself and swing the iron.
Instead of dull the sound near rings
which echos upon its return.
The hymn cuts off, nobody sings.
Now toward flight I am inclined.

The rasp of a heavy locking bar
now comes from the other side.
I hear a crow call from afar,
it comes my way with silent glide.
Upon my shoulder it's consigned.

Age old rusted hinges scream.
The crow taps my shoulder with her beak.
Gate opens, by itself it seems.
Crow taps again, begins to speak.
The gate opens, what is behind?

The crow's taps and calls vanquish the dream.
I come awake to spouse's voice.
She taps my shoulder and it seems
I hear a fading choir rejoice
as dreamland slowly leaves my mind.

I rub my eyes and smile at wife,
arise and, with her, go to bed
still thinking of the dreamer's life
but I prefer this one instead.
I find myself in bed reclined
...and images swirl in tired mind.
--------end part one---------

*In two directions we are pulled.
One our mundane working life
when waking senses all are dulled.
The other filled with beauty , often strife.
This begins one person's choice:
to which world will he give voice?