The Chambers of Sleep Painters


  • pocketofdreams6
  • If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a tinkling symbol. And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And if I dole out all my goods, and if I deliver my body that I may boast but have not love, nothing I am profited. Love is long suffering, love is kind, it is not jealous, love does not boast, it is not inflated. It is not discourt

Poem Commentary

This poem I have written for Christina Chambers, with the amazing spirit of the wolf.

The Chambers of Sleep Painters

These walls are closing in; I feel so trapped into fate, as if I had a decision to change this I would, I feel like I’m beginning to suffocate, and have no choice but to walk into the hills away from the big city life, walking through this forest I have no place to go, it’s getting colder, please don’t snow.  Down the hill I see a small little ghost town.  All the people seem friendly, but seem to be heading home, walking these empty streets of autumn, the leaves are glittered with colors, oh no, it’s beginning to snow.  The winds are picking up, I better find the nearest door to find shelter, before things become disastrous, but there’s one thing I notice at the end of the street, a dead looking willow tree with blackened branches, and not a single leaf, all alone, I step away inside of day, inside like a maze, and have no clue where I’m headed.  The heat begins to warm my heart, as I look at all the beautiful art.  This must be the art museum, but I’m the only one, all alone.  Walking along, I’m startled by a silver wolf, penetrating my eyes from across the hall, she runs along, and feel this desire to follow so I do, and there she is scratching at the door.  I assume from the beginning this was all meant to be, so I step inside into a large white room with a pile of every color of oil paint imaginable, and an empty canvas along the wall.

I can’t stop thinking of what I should paint, what colors do I choose when there are so many to choose from.  What will happen if my friends and family walks in and is completely…..  Ohhh so sleepy I am of all these terrors and anxieties, I’m thinking of dandelions flying away with it’s yellow petaled wings roaring, soaring, settling, and singing me to sleep.

Sleep-painting a black weeping willow tree with a smile and some sun shine, dandelions dancing on the branches along the contrast of a pink to baby blue sky line, with a fine red rock river canyon along the base where water brings life to wolves, if today could be a good day, then why not tomorrow, between two hands and two eyes I can make what I want to be; here in the center of my universe where I exist and am pleasured by real genuine breathing things, touching me at the slightest degree at the edges of my skin, so soft where blood flows rivers within, where it all begins and ends, sending shivers down my spine the length a twenty-four hour clock wind, time and space outside my window, just floating…. Drifting, breathing pure air, I might as well be singing, such beauty all around as I awake from this sleep paint to some chirping birds outside.

What wonders I have created, as the crowd claps a strapping grenade applause, what they see is my way, I better run home before the sun setting shines so low.  Run, run, run, everything is faster, greener, as I run, run, run.  The sun waves goodbye just in time as I open my door where the walls dare to stare near my stair like arms that claw and tear, all this space, this is the place where I once thought there were certain things I couldn’t do.  But I’ve found a way to live in this big city out in the middle of my nowhere, because that is what I see with these two eyes, and his two hands.

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ginga commented on The Chambers of Sleep Painters


Pocket this is simply enchanting and mesmerizing. I loved it from start to finish. The painting visuals are the highlight. ginga

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

pocketofdreams6’s Poems (136)

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