A Dream

If within a dream I could grace

Innocently, and not feign

Another’s thoughts, this starry place, 

And understand this inner plain,

I’d touch those stars with my hands

And witness in the night my breath,

Greying hairs show signs of sands

That pour out time and ushers death!

Inside the bounds of my own head

I see this world where I arrive,

I think “My goodness! Am I dead?

Or does this mean that I’m alive?”

Either way my conscious soul

Or entity where e’er it be

Comes to conclude that this ol’

Shell of mine just isn’t me!

But rather a ship of a kind

To keep me tethered now and here,

This world where it’s hard to find

The creature I see in the mirror. 

But if in a dream I just exist

Where in my chest I feel

Eternity, I’d not resist

Live as if my dream were real!

-Jacob Winterfeldt

The Dusty Traveler

Alone, the dusty traveler dines, spilling crumbs o’er his rhymes,

He senses in his chest at times truths that only dirt has known,

And in his pocket be two dimes, a pen and paper, and a light

That he only sheds on his words written in the darkest night.

Unsure, the sleepy traveler creeps ‘low a bridge, then he weeps,

As with his thumb a ring he keeps. Rotates it toward the right.

And through the cracks the moonlight seeps, so in his pocket his light stays,

E’en though his darkest nights are passed, on his knees tonight he prays.

Shaking, the chilly traveler words a song to him the stars rehearse,

O, to him there’s nothing worse than looking up beholding grey,

E’en at that, he never durst write other than what he knows how,

And that is what the heavens give, that is what angels endow. 

Silent, the dying traveler ends his poem to his dearest friends,

Upon the chilly breeze he sends words he whispers as he bows,

And he, his soul so truly wends toward that heaven he was shown,

To that Eternal Poem from where his empty pen upon his heart has sown.

Madness or Serenity

Madness or serenity?

Betwixt the two extreme

The dreams where I’ve identity 

Seems to produce its mean.

A missing link so puzzling

Piece by piece, a thrill

Rushes, then beguiling,

For peace is pieces still.

To heaven I’m addressing

To find a-law I cry-est

In trenches mediating 

Shout I, “Oh, I’m the shiest!”

Serenity or madness?

Stream I betwixt the two,

In Styx it seems a sadness

Pervades my wand’ring view.

But if honesty’s prevailing

I must accept a train

Of thought ne’er once derailing 

That depth is brought by rain.

As the rays of light chase midnight

Residing in wells at noon

The ephemeral glints of insight 

Discloses my heart as strewn.

Then the Word so chases darkness

And it must condemn the crime 

Committed in the conscience

‘For I e’en e’er wrote the rhyme.

Madness or serenity?

Betwixt the two, a scene

Erupts in anonymity

As a calm before the dream.

The Melancholic Meteorite

The Melancholic Meteorite 

In an instant my soul would just fly

Toward that sparkling ocean there,

But the tears of which I’ve yet to cry

Weigh me down and keep me here.

There be those of whom I love

But there’s no ‘verse to reconcile,

And it seems that rhyme is not enough

For all the ache to be worthwhile.

But how could I just be so crass?

I’ve studied it as I have knelt

Found I, that an atomic mass 

Can’t quantify the things I felt!

Which means, of course, only one thing,

It’s not that I’m alive and things are dead,

But I, along with my dreams

Are there more than just in my head.

In honesty the truth is this:

I feel melancholic as a rock

That sits in dirt with just one wish,

That it’d be bold enough to talk

And share with others what it’s seen

Throughout the ages, all the same

In the dirt as that ocean gleams

O’er its head and from whence it came.

My Wild Heart

How does, in glowing nights, the wildest heart be reined? 

A gaze of pure delight turns to two blue eyes unfeigned

And in a sense, so innocent, a friendship lost in time

Begins a play where end of days shan’t end a love obtained.

Nor end of nights where starry sights strung hearts of glass on strings

Could erase the past, for it’s been cast—into two souls entwined.

And with high hopes on pedestals angels ranged voices sang

But now as soaking clothes and telephones their songs in my ears ring.

O’ er mem’ries old and deserts cold my poor wild heart has reigned.

An Odd Ode

An Odd Ode

Know I, I’m odd, but I wouldn’t be

Anything other than what is me,

And God I believe in even though

I’m not ideal at what I know.

Look I, upon this life I’ve led

Through a window from my bed,

Assembled in the stars I see

A medley of what used to be.

Though my body’s weak my soul believes

In a God so True and Old,

And e’en though I’m odd I know that He’s

Formed another for my heart to hold.

And e’en I sometimes am bewildered,

By my own design so odd it be,

E’en at that I know my prayers are heard

Through this perplexing odyssey.

Peculiar at times within my head,

But if in the end only my God

Will love me for the things I’ve said

I’ll be alright with being odd.

-Jacob Winterfeldt