My Bad Dream

My Bad Dream

Copyright © January 24, 2016 by Douglas W. Jerving.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author, except as provided by USA copyright law.

I lay in bed so close to you. So close
I dream of dancing by your youthful side
While still outside that drift we both have years
Betraying late our ages outside sleep.
They curse the moment waking from the dreft
Aborted and forgotten like a child
Unwanted before she comes to her birth
Reminding me that you will push aside
My hand from your sweet breast and from that curve
Of back, I long, to bottom, to caress
Or even taste the scent of with my lips,
My fingertips, or tongue as in my dream.

I sleep again for seconds that are long.
Eternity and time do not relate
So perfectly outside the wakened state.

So sleep engenders love I would not have
Except the dream demands I should attend,
Despite the confound fear of losing you
And unfounded responsibility
To one of dreams, in life I never knew,
(It is a dream, no sense easily made),
Toward another woman I do not find
Desirable. I am her husband now,
While you, my only love and my desire,
Are alienated from me by your choice,
By your divorce and by your own device,
And I am left to serve this devil’s bride.

I wake again and seek you by my side
Moving my body to the one I love,
Hope failing that you will respond in kind,
Inviting me, awakened, to your cove,
From there, and without words, into your heart.

Yet you are wordless and you cast me off.
I am not dreaming now. The painful sleep
To near comes now the truth too hard mock me
As too you have shunned often my advance,
And you know I will not enforce on you
Advance despite my right and yours’ foregone.

But still? What shall we make of all of this?
You are my wife and you can tell me “No!”
That would be better than to push away
Without a word but just a final shake;
Turning your hips against my glad intent.

Oh grant the honey of your flower, me,
With all that early sweet caress, the lust
I still alone have for you in my heart.
Intend upon me (if now just pretend)
Your dear domestic care upon my soul.
I would much rather have you than bad dreams
Or even good bared before heaven whole,
Purified of leaven, loving only you,
Paying my pain earthward this final toll.


Doug Jerving is the publisher of the You may contact him at


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