Category Archives: DREAMING

A Dream Seller by M. Asim Nehal. .I sell my dreams to the lights of the day And wait patiently to see the results.

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“You may not understand why you have to go through some experiences, but you have to trust and believe in the process. Because that process is your life, and that’s all you got.”

Brandon Novak, Dreamseller

“Madness plants mirrors in the desert. I find the means frightening.” ― Floriano Martins

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“I asked him if it were a mirage, and he said yes. I said it was a dream, and he agreed, But said it was the desert’s dream not his. And he told me that in a year or so, when he had aged enough for any man, then he would walk into the wind, until he saw the tents. This time, he said, he would go on with them.”
― Neil Gaiman, Smoke and Mirrors

“Life-ahead is timeless fortune.” ― Lailah Gifty Akita

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A Gypsy (Fortune Teller) By Meena Mustafa – Poem by Meena Mustafa

A room I entered of fortune and dreams

A mystic world, now it seems

Hoping to find answers, I followed my heart

A gypsy woman to read my stars

She lay before me some scattered bones

And talked about ruins and magic stones

Then she gazed into the crystal ball

Getting some answers to her call

A vision of a dream, started to form

Shaping into reality as she performed

‘Teller of fortune, holder of hearts’

‘Tell me what lies beneath the cards’

She got some answers as mystery unfolds

Fear not for I see your heart is of gold

Good days are ahead so just behold!

You will find answers that I was told

The sky is your fortune; you’ll find your way

Forget your sorrows and dream each day

Smell the flowers that bloom in the fields

So many broken hearts have healed

So fear no more and open up your heart

To a new beginning all from the start.

Meena Mustafa

The first river you paddle runs through the rest of your life. It bubbles up in pools and eddies to remind you who you are. – Lynn Noel, Voyages: Canada’s Heritage Rivers

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Rivers are magnets for the imagination, for conscious pondering and subconscious dreams, thrills and fears. People stare into the moving water, captivated, as they are when gazing into a fire. What is it that draws and holds us? The rivers’ reflections of our lives and experiences are endless. The water calls up our own ambitions of flowing with ease, of navigating the unknown. Streams represent constant rebirth. The waters flow in, forever new, yet forever the same; they complete a journey from beginning to end, and then they embark on the journey again.
– From Lifelines by Tim Palmer

“As a child I assumed that when I reached adulthood, I would have grown-up thoughts.” ― David Sedaris, Let’s Explore Diabetes with Owls

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“Don’t you find it odd,” she continued, “that when you’re a kid, everyone, all the world, encourages you to follow your dreams. But when you’re older, somehow they act offended if you even try.”
― Ethan Hawke, The Hottest State

“A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.” ― John Barrymore


“The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
I do that too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean,” said the little old man.”

― Shel Silverstein

foto –saffy and izzy on his last day on earth at north beach

Vision without action is a daydream. Action without vision is a nightmare. Japan.

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“There are many who don’t wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don’t wish to wake for the same fear.”

― Richelle E. Goodrich, Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher

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Children don’t say his name or try to find him.

Dad is not a word they use. His absence is a thin

Erratic line through the years. At five, his own

Father left, and never returned. Call it a pattern.

The Welfare Of My Enemy by Anthony Lawrence,

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Old Joe the shearer had been phoned to catch the train next day.
He had a job at Mungindi, an early start for May.
So he packed his port and rolled his swag and hurried off to bed.
But sleep he couldn’t steal a wink to soothe his aching head.

He heard the missus snoring hard, he beard the ticking clock.
He heard the midnight train blow in, he heard the crowing cock.
At last Joe in a stupor lay, a dreaming now was he
Of sheep, and pens, and belly wool, he shore in number three.

He grabbed the missus in his sleep and shore her like a ewe.
The first performance soon was done as up the neck he flew.
And then he turned to longblow her, down the whipping side he tore,
With his mighty knee upon her and his grip around her jaw.

And then he rolled her over, like a demon now he shore.
She dare not kick or struggle; she had seen him shear before.
He was leading Jack the ringer, he was catching Mick the Brute.
When he called for tar and dumped her, like a hogget down the chute.

Then he reached to stop the shear machine, excited and out of gear.
And the electric light was shining, and all was bright and clear.
He gazed now out the window, half awakened from his sleep,
And down there on the footpath lay the missus in a heap.

“Gawd Blimey, I’ve had nightmares after boozin’ up a treat.
And I’ve walked without me trousers to the pub across the street,
But this one here takes lickin’ and its one I’ll have to keep,
I dare not tell the cobbers I shore the missus in me sleep.


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Cut not the wings of your dreams,
for they are the heartbeat and the freedom of your soul.


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The tide rises, the tide falls,  The twilight darkens, the curlew calls. Longfellow.


Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls. For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone. Your house is your larger body. It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? And dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?

Khalil Gibraan

In reverie they emulate the noble mood Of giant sphinxes stretched in depths of solitude Who seem to slumber in a never-ending dream. Baudelaire.



In wreaths of smoke, blown waywardwise,
Faces of olden days uprise,
And in his dreamer’s reverie
They haunt the smoker’s brain, and he
Breathes for the past regretful sighs.

Mem’ries of maids with azure eyes,
In dewy dells ‘neath June’s soft skies,
Faces that more he’ll only see
In wreaths of smoke.

Eheu, eheu! How fast tine flies–
How youth-time passion droops and dies,
And all the countless visions flee!
How worn would all those faces be,
Were they not swaithed in soft disguise
In wreaths of smoke!

Frank Newton Holman

as far as,  the eye can see, over the fallen, past the weary, along the trail, carved by thousand tears. Maiya


Night sky

Oh glamorous thief
You have stolen all my dreams
And hidden them each In your obsidian keep
Where I search for them in vain.


Every blessing ignored becomes a curse. I don’t want anything else in life. But you are forcing me to look at wealth and at horizons I have never known. Now that I have seen them, and now that I see how immense my possibilities are, I’m going to feel worse than I did before you arrived. Because I know the things I should be able to accomplish, and I don’t want to do so.” (Paulo Coelho)


I learned to watch, to put my trust in other hands than mine. I learned to wander. I learned what every dreaming child needs to know — that no horizon is so far that you cannot get above it or beyond it. These I learned at once. But most things come harder.

— Beryl Markham, West With The Night, 1942

Enlightenment must come little by little-otherwise it would overwhelm. Idries Shah


foto of the bellinger river from chinatown in urunga nsw

Reflections by Noel Davis

Meeting in being
Out with the land once more
with the mountains sitting all around
their fiery colours now fast asleep
but the sky wide awake
her stars rapt in the moon
close to the top of the night.
A jet day and a world away from the noise of
do and go
and the lights of illusion
listening to the desert quiet
calling me home.
Still . . .
so still
this land in shadow
deep in the Dreaming
not a word from the trees
not a sigh from the rocks
not a whisper from the dry grass
not a sound . . .
all about silent
meeting in being.

“Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged” Rumi


foto of wide river cafe sign in ulmarra on the clarence river of nsw

And at night as I lay a-dreaming, I woke, and a silver moon
Shone fair on a dancing river and laughed to a broad lagoon,
And the grass turned over the fences and rippled like ripening grain,
And clouds hung low on the hilltops, and earth smelt sweet with the rain.

The Last Muster

    William H Ogilvie

They’re calling from the wilderness, the vast and God-like spaces, The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.


Robert W. Service

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Date palm

stands sentinel

o’er scattered stones, and dreams

long dreamt of boneless soils well tilled

by settled soldiers

I know perfection is a chance effect Of uninflected being, that to reflect Will break the mirror that preserves your face . . .

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“Know all things to be like this:

A mirage, a cloud castle,

A dream, an apparition,

Without essence, but with qualities that can be seen.


Know all things to be like this:

As the moon in a bright sky

In some clear lake reflected,

Though to that lake the moon has never moved.


Know all things to be like this:

As an echo that derives

From music, sounds and weeping,

Yet in that echo is no melody.


Know all things to be like this:

As a magician makes illusions

Of horses, oxen, carts, and other things,

Nothing is as it appears.”

When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good.

The Kookaburras  by John O’Brien

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FOTO of kookaburra at raleigh nsw

Could I Hear the Kookaburras Once Again

May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over?
May a dreamer in the silence rake the ashes of the past?
So a spirit might awaken in the best the years have taken,
And the Jove that left him lonely might be with him at the last.
While he searches in the by-ways, shall his heart forget the highways
Where the sunburnt arms are toiling in the sun-shine and the rain,
Where the simple things and lowly make their lives sublime and holy,
And the kookaburras chorus once again?