My Poem YES. THIS WAS MY DREAM to discuss Thursday April 17 2025 First poem Jill

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jill stockinger

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Apr 15, 2025, 2:56:27 PM4/15/25

to Rennaissance writing Group, Kaolin Fire, kristen wong, Robert L. Smith, Nelson, Curt, Helen Cooper, pattis...@comcast.net, RSW Jerry Roth, Celia Mccauley, Kim Knighton, Vera Weise, Jim Gormley, jesse.earl...@gmail.com, Kimberlee Wilson, Karen Arenson, Connie Johnstone, Stephen Frantz

Dear Compadres, I just noticed I have not sent out any poems to discuss this coming Thursday, April 17, 2025.

I have written at least 10 since our last class.

Ugh. How to choose?

You know that feeling, that the poem you JUST wrote is the BEST thing you've ever written?

And then that feeling dissipates, and you're sure it's actually not that good? Or any good at all?

Well, here's the poem I wrote today, that I just finished minutes ago.

This poem is the the first one I am sending for our group discussion on Thursday April 17, 2025.

Jill Stockinger

Yes, This Was My Dream

I am dreaming.
I am back in high school,
a dreary, hurtful place.
In a gray bathroom stall, and . . .
I am indignant!
Why is this high school ghost,
with looming bricks and hundreds
of floating disembodied sneers
following me? I escaped
that school’s poison years ago.
It can’t be lonely!
It’s got a pack of at least 800 souls
to chew on and maul daily. Mentally.
Well, sometimes physically.

Does the pain I carry from those days
attract it to me? “Shoo,” I shout.
“Vamoose! Go away!” It’s clanking
its chains. I do a double take.
How can a floaty nothingness carry
heavy chains? And how can they
make noise? All in my head;
in a dream, anything is possible,
I tell myself primly. Like a teacher
instructing a backward student.
“I Don't Want You Following Me,”
I scream. It poofs away. Suddenly,
I turn into the Pillsbury Doughboy,
but I’m made of marshmallow.

A puffy white marshmallow figure!
Fascinating! I wear no clothes.
I poke my protruding belly. That spot
dips in and pops out. I marvel
at my tiny white marshmallow penis.
This is a surprise. I never had
a penis before. I frown.
It doesn't look functional.
How will I pee? It looks so small
and vulnerable, like it could break off
easily. Maybe I'll never leave
this bathroom. Ever. If I went outside,
would the sun melt me?
Will some animal try to eat me?
If I sat down, would I get covered
by ants? This form is no picnic.
I wake up. Me. An aging crone.
Flooded with relief.