Sleep-Induced Subconscious Wonderings...

By Chris Dunmire

Last night in my crayon-induced journal play I decided to render a pumpkin tree. I'm well aware that pumpkins grow on vines in patches on the ground, but this is the beauty of art: If you can imagine it, you can make it real. Well, at least on paper you can. And with this Pumpkinitis I can't seem to shake, well, I just rolled with it.

The subconscious mind works wonders in your sleep. This morning I woke up with an important question running through my brain: What if pumpkins really did grow on trees? Instantly, a collage of thoughts related to the political, emotional, and spiritual state of the world begged to be released. Current events right now include conflict with a particular nation testing nuclear weapons, daily body counts in wartime strife, the media rife with political scandals, and reports of another shooting in the music world. So I grabbed my new writers' group notebook and let it all flow out from me in metaphorical prose, with sleepy dust still in my eyes.

What if Pumpkins Grew on Trees?

© 2006 Chris Dunmire

What if pumpkins grew on trees
And candy wrappers hugged the streets

The points on stingers of bees
Didn’t hurt and pierce with violent retreat

What if oil didn’t in the pot boil
And cause so much worldwide turmoil

If in the bush there were two-handed peace doves
The sphere of a billion spirits embraced real love

What if the box did not have a fox
A left or a right pushing its might

The bo weevil did not possess evil
DNA cells were emptied of ill

What if the bat did not strike the cat
The snakes in the grass threw off their white hats

M&M chocolate candies
Embraced their own dandies

What if the cricket decided to picket
The chirpings of cloth hair with fears that grow thickets

The sway of the swan song swam only in creeks
To peck sunken rocks on their hard rocky cheeks

What if the triangles lifted up to the sky
And Niagara Falls suddenly got wry

The Grand Canyon decided to yell
"Unconscious visitors should go straight to hell!"

What if pumpkins did grow on trees
For some, the bombs falling surely would please
For others the squash cannot be so beared

The seeds of mankind could only be spilled
Smashed pumpkins for some means only to die
For others it’s the only pie in the sky

And then all to their gods can finally say “hi”
And leave their reality with a final “goodbye”

And not know of the unmade beds they once had lied
With a smile and a nod each one had died.

This is the catharsis of creativity — of journaling an inner journey — to acknowledge and be heard, even if only to yourself in the quiet hours of the dawn of a new day. •

© 2006 Chris Dunmire www.chrisdunmire.com. All rights reserved.