Reasons Stained Dream

This post in very many ways is a continuation of a post Down The Road That was posted on September 19. I found myself seated any again writing Words and stanzas sometimes with thoughts in mind, but on other occasions It has been myself permitting the poem itself take a form and body that has proven to be an interesting journey even for me.

For much of todays poem it has been placing words and stanzas together for poetic reasons alone. But I honestly would love to hear and read any ideas folks take from this poem and what they feel the poem is speaking of. I believe that one can read a poem and find something that another may never see, It is what I love about poetry. People putting their creative nature to work along with a sprinkle of imagination and see where it takes one.

But on other areas It is a journey down the avenues of a mind, a memory that brings up things that create in itself a world that would be interesting to read. But honestly speaking it also has a deeper hidden message for folks. For example there is a mention of “Natures Mother” and her kisses on one line along with Her “Middle finger” showing on another, There is a deeper meaning there which I rather like and believe.

But I let it for people to chew and ponder on and find for themselves. BUT With this I accept that this hidden meaning may never be found and something rather different being spoken of.. Such is the beauty of poetry.

Having said all of this Please Enjoy This Poem:

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((_{At times I display Photography from other sources which I provide copyrite notice belonging to those who took such shots. On this post This photograph is one of my own shots thus © Pat Fitzgerald 2023.))}

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Reasons Stained Dream



Standing last in line waiting on some news,
With little left to snooze, no time for blues.
No zeros here for heroes counting time,
Pausing on a trek almost worth a climb.


See waves are crashing softly on the rocks,
Where nature’s mother never stand and mocks.
Her kisses come mixed with fresh morning dew,
But often her middle finger comes through.


Harvest time through the years sprinkled with dust,
Empty barns filled as labour rewards trust.
The reaper thus stands with a vacant glare,
Playing games for keepsake, stand tight beware.


For wandering avenues of this mind,
Cause to find someone is blind but in kind.
Pebbles through shattered glass nothing there walks,
The human type when silence golden talks.


Empty rooms of a vacant kind ne’er hear,
What deaf ears cannot see for years will clear.
The dragons flight on an imagined night,
Draws numbers from countless sides it’s airtight.




© Pat Fitzgerald  2023

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Thank you for reading this far into this post, It means a lot to me that folks read my work and enjoy them. Some poetry contain topics that may or may not contain issues that readers either agree with or experience or simply will disagree with. But still Poetry is a form of art work that I enjoy and thus using it in a manner to touch the reader.

My path through writing and publishing it on this blog is a journey beyond any expectations. So my thanks for joining me on this journey.

Poetry for me is a constant learning curve that I constantly strive to improve. Often due to the speed of my typing and a few other issues mistakes and typos will find their way into published posts. I strive to work on improving this as I move along. My thanks for your understanding of this.

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Until Next Time Cheers.

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