Peter’s Dream

Peter doesn’t usually remember his dream. Last night he did.

Peter had a nightmare
where no one would
listen. He was in
a luxury hotel
in another
country he didn’t know
which country
and the elevator
unexpectedly
went straight up
very high up.
An older woman
fainted into his arms
and then he couldn’t
find anyone who would
help her. No one
would listen. He tried
and tried, carrying her
in his arms. She was
ok but he thought she
needed help. After a while
he put her down onto
the soft white sand
in the beach outside.
Then he went inside
and saw Barack Obama
on the phone at the bar.
Peter patted Barack
on the back. You’re doing
a good job he said.

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

3 Comments

  1. That poem of a dream, about stage fright?
    For some a delight, while others pass out.
    Knowing he took risks, the pride his own.

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