Dreams and UFOs! The two seem very much to go together. Experiencers often recount a dreamy atmosphere during both sightings and close encounters. Abductees recall UFO dreams which some interpret as actual encounters while others consider them screen memories or the emergence of repressed experiences.

Whatever there origins, dreams are generally considered windows into the human subconscious and thus offer keen insight about the depths of our species collective unconscious. Dreams are the poetry of mind. The Experiencer Narrative is the closest some of us will ever get to the actual UFO phenomena.

Within this DreamTime section we will hear Experiencer & Dreamer Narratives as well as "poetry and fiction" inspired by UFOs and other Anomalous phenomena.

It's dark and it must be about 3 AM. Momentarily, I glance down from the roof and notice all the adjacent houses now have their lights on. A crowd has gathered in front of the Moore place. Several of the neighbors are standing around in their robes or pajamas or curlers. Many of them have cups of coffee or bags of popcorn or other snacks in their hands. Their expressions are more of curiosity than of the astonishment you might expect. (I mean, Hey, we might be talking about visitors from another world!)

"It's one of those crashed disks," I tell Bill Moore. That's really my neighbor's name but it's not that Bill Moore. I suppose in dream logic it's more than appropriate that it would crash into the house of someone whose namesake wrote the first book about the most famous flying saucer crash.

"What should we do?" Bill asks as we notice the steaming craft seems to be broken open in one section.

Before I could answer, we hear his brother Patrick from the other side of the roof yell, "Hey, come look at this!" We run over to see a dead alien. It is somewhat like the standard 'gray' except its head isn't quite so large and its skin is less gray than it is green. (Little green men, I guess.) It must have come out of the ship when it crashed. But that opening didn't look big enough.

As we were examining the dead guy, a couple more neighbors had joined us on the roof to look at the crashed disk. One of them screams, "There's another one here!" We run over and see this man pointing through the ripped opening of the downed UFO. "He's still alive," his voice cracks with excitement! We look through the orifice and see this trapped greenish creature making pitiful gasping noises that chilled me to the
bone.

"Get a crowbar," I say to nobody in particular. Seconds later somebody hands me one. We're frantically trying to rescue something whose reaction at being rescued we can only guess at. Without too much effort, I'm able to get this door pried open. Then I come face to face with this thing. It becomes apparent that the creature's backside has melted against an inner surface of the vehicle that somehow became extremely hot. Our eyes lock as he expires. I am horrified and transfixed. I am unable to look away as he goes into the hideous death grin. There's a scene at the end of Looking for Mr. Goodbar where the Diane Keaton character is murdered. As she dies in this darkened room, the director employs this strobe light effect where the strobe is at high speed and gradually the frequency slows. It starts with flickering light on this dead face and ends up with the image playing peek-a-boo with you. Whoever was directing my dream, employed the same technique. This scary face was flickering in front of me, then the lighting started flashing on and off - slower and slower.
It's as if the face was saying: "look, don't look, Look, Don't Look, LOOK, DON'T LOOK, LOOK, DON'T LOOK, LOOK, DON'T LOOK, LOOK."

Of course, this is when I wake up with my heart pounding. I kept the light on the rest of the night.

He wrote this poem in 1981 but I first read it nearly a decade later when he gave it to me as a graduation gift. While not an anomalies or UFO poem per se, it embodies much of what I have felt as a seeker of wisdom exploring the nature of reality.

I awoke early that morning after a few hours' rest, not being able to recall having dreamt, but with the vague feeling I had heard my own first name echo across the placid waters below the aging house. The pre-dawn sky was yet adorned with the starry mantle of royal purple; the all-seeing eye of the sun was at its nadir, still resting in his subterranean repose. Restless, I stood up and peered out the unwashed panes of the second-story window at the shore beneath my old room. Long, low moonbeams rolled up and down on the soft ripples near the water's edge, giving the scene a peaceful, sleepy atmosphere. Their reflection on the silvery surface penetrated the murky waters somewhat, giving the appearance of an ancient, weed-choked structure far below the surface, an eldritch outcropping whose very peak fell just inches short of reaching the heavens and whose occult foundation must lie far beneath the visible surface. The minimal light flickered slightly, and the illusion was gone. A basso profundo chorus of unseen frogs filled the night with its song, a compliment to the lazy lap, lap of the water caressing the grassy shore.

I found myself walking barefoot across the dewy lawn, enjoying the cool sensation between my toes. A winding, labyrinthine path through a well-kept hedge led the way to an old stone bridge. There at the water's edge I tentatively placed one foot into the shallows and felt the slime ooze up over my toes as they sank deep into the mud. A small green frog plopped into the water nearby; a bass emerged from the hidden depths and opened its large maw in response.

I stood there meditating, enjoying the calm and thinking of little else. Low on the horizon blinked the starcluster known as the Pleiades or Seven Sisters. It had puzzled Renaissance astronomers greatly why the Greeks had named them so when there were only six suns visible. Not until the invention of high-power telescopes was it found that at one time there were indeed seven; one had burned out during Europe's Dark Age. Some groups of Indians referred to them as the Six Grandfathers, though they were not worshipped as such despite what certain texts claimed.

A slight movement out of the corner of my eye made me turn suddenly. Just above the surface of the lake on the shore opposite where I stood was a large silver disk hovering silently a few feet over the water, its reflection wavering slightly in the ripples below. I wasn't sure quite what it was doing - I had neglected to bring my glasses but as near as my blurry eyes could tell it was taking on water for some unknown purpose. I had a hard time looking at the object directly, not because of its brightness but because of the way it appeared then to fade. I found I could best view the enigmatic orb when looking away from its mystery and glimpsing at it occasionally out of the corner of my eye. A bright white light which had the appearance of a star moved off from its position near the low-lying Pleiades, growing larger as it approached, and joined the first. They merged as one, rose slightly and turned on edge, then sank slowly beneath the waters with hardly a ripple and absolutely no sound. I stood transfixed with fear and awe as this unnatural spectacle took place before my weary gaze. When dawn came I was back in my bed, unsure just how I had returned. The muddy footprints and dried blades of grass betrayed the reality of my nocturnal excursion, but no trace was to be found of the night's incredible vision. The whole vivid episode must have been a dream. Even as I write these words, its memory grows ever dimmer, and if it weren't for this journal I feel I would forget it altogether before too many more hours pass and the golden majesty of the sun evaporates the morning dew.