“Why was I born?”

called the Jackdaw to the Raven.

“What’s the purpose of my life?”

whispered Piglet to Ratty.

“What does it mean?”

hissed Michelangelo to Raphael

with sour on his face.

“Where am I going?”

shouted a Dublin woman from the Northside

to Molly Malone.

“When will my answer be enough?”

I said to myself.



Moses never led his people to the promised land

Magellan never sailed his ships home

Puccini never finished his journey to Turandot

I’ve never reached my daydreams.

I led up to them,

talking and walking

barefoot on  moss,

across streams

to the other side.

I reached for them on tippy-toes

never let go.

That’s my trouble

I’m no Michelangelo

and so I watch those daydreams

grow and grow

into memories

–  elephants in  my room –

wondering  what Moses felt

as he watched the people

leave the desert

their daydreams shining.

Maybe it’s a feast to simply daydream

and trek on

until I lose the breath for daydreams

and ‘in that sleep of death

dream on.