Monday, 9 May 2016

A poem by Richard Manly Heiman


Dreams that wake you are vivid.
You remember them too
like ghosts in the attic
they’re always there
just waiting to be shouted down
wrapping their skinny bloodless arms
squeezing your brainstem.

You invite them to breakfast
Serve them French toast, coffee
that goes right through them and—
though they're always silent, never
read the paper, sneeze, or pet the cat
before they head back through the
ceiling, still somehow
you sense their gratitude.

Richard Manly (Rick) Heiman lives in the California "Gold Country" where there is little gold left and no water from which to pan it. He rides horses occasionally when he can find one lethargic enough to mount up. Rick works as a substitute teacher and writes evenings, weekends and when the kids are at recess. He is pursuing an MFA with Lindenwood U. Rick's work has appeared, or will, in Mulberry Fork Review, Pilgrim, Bop Dead City, Rust & Moth, and more. His website URL is

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