A Philosophical Turn in the Poetry Garden

So, I had a moment and somehow managed to turn out a couple of "deep" poems.

Dreams of the Many
by
Caroline M. L. McMillan

Were those few who live a fishbowl
existence born to stand
out so that the masses
could blend
in? Or were those few born to
portray the dreams
of the many? To stand,
painted, primped,
nude, nonplussed, costumed and bejeweled and
repeat the words of the dreaming
masses?
Were they born to show our dreams,
to allow those phantoms to step onto
an altered stage—
reality and dream mixed for a time
in only the viewers' eye?

For there is no reality in what they do,
painted and primped, costumed and bejeweled
before the cameras.
Even if dream be based in history,
the story unfolded in the dreamer's eye
in the dark, velvet black
with cushioned seating can, at best,
be only a blurred facsimile.

So take refuge, those whose lives
blend in, those who pass—
unobserved—
through life. Take refuge
in the dark
with the lighted screen
and dancing figures
your dreams in mouths
born to stand out and live a tortured
existence—every eye turned,
ever under scrutiny, every fault uncovered
every move revealed.
Pity them and let them
alone.
Allow them to portray the dreams of the masses
by so often blending in
when they were born
to stand out.

Shift
by Caroline M. L. McMillan

She sits and stares
Teacup in one hand
a finger idly stirring
spoon forgotten beside a saucer on the table
cup, paused, halfway between.
The house dark
Silent.
She sits and stares.
Steam curls as
Gray clouds pile—
mountains, valleys
caves, dark and cold.
Stop.

House echoes
mumbling, creaking, sighing, shifting
Cup and saucer sit
abandoned
Spoon half on, half off
a cream colored saucer
a trail of sugar from the bowl
Teacup is tipped
a long dark stain on a pristine white tablecloth.
Still she sits
Frozen.

She sits and stares
The common before
The unparalleled resting behind her eyes
A frozen pantomime of calm.

Thump. Large bag on the floor.
Tall, tired, young
A brush of a kiss on
the cheek brings her back.
“Hi Momma.”

Things weren't
the way they should be.
Now
they are.