Stay drunk, you;
Keep worrying.
Preoccupied
With what’s next.
Can’t sleep
Without churning
Sheets like shorebreak.
Tumbled concrete,
Husking winds,
Hissing palm trees,
Gravel bullets
Of sky-spat rain.
The hole is growing
Withdrawn chill
Bring out the star storm
Get it over with.
Posts Tagged ‘Sleep’
0
Wrench me from this zombie state
Use power tools if that will help
I want to sleep as soon as I wake
The wake next moment by doggy yelp.
This oily film suffused my eyes
And cannot be washed away today
Something matching these leaded skies
Draining hues turns all I see to grey.
Goodnight Jenn
Sleep well, sleep tight
I just wanted to make sure
You got home alright.
It’s not that I
Want to bother you or pry
But I think
It’d be nice
If I could wish you goodnight.
Just like you said
This doesn’t mean anything
It’s all in my head
Just like everything, everything.
I’m not coming over
I returned your keyring
But I can close my eyes
See the covers
And the space I used to occupy.
Sleep is coming in her own time.
Soon, but not right now.
I hear her footsteps in the courtyard
And smell her in the still air.
Sometimes my words fail me;
I can’t think, and my poetry sucks.
But keep trying, trying, trying
From my blanket-swaddled lair.
Preceded by gifts of yawns
Tearing up my eyes,
Filling them with dust and starlight
Beckoning to dreamlit vistas.
Fighting the unseen entity
Trying to tell myself that I don’t want to
Mind slagging into smooth film
And willpower saturates to crystals.
Yes I am sleeping in here tonight.
And it is true I am writing again.
Attempts to communicate, compromise,
Tolerate, have failed like good ideas:
Practically useless and foppish.
I am simply complex, and my head hurts
From psychotherapy and coping.
We are both selfish and immature,
Egotistical bastards, spineless jelly
In the face of adversity.
An oboe, a flat reed
And symphony for a blade of grass.
Duh.
Thee Angelkitten
Posted: December 19, 1995 in PoetryTags: Angel, Angelkitten, Cat, Cleopatra, Eye, Halo, Honey, Mother, Mykelti, Sleep, Spirit, Tree, Wind, Wings
A purring song of liquid honey Angelkitten,
Burnished golden metallic wings,
Diamond-bright dinky halo and
Those kitten-soft feet to mommy-paw
Your eyes shut at sleepytime,
Hunting your hair,
As the wind from the waves of her home,
Corner-of-your-eye cat-quick paranoid spirit
Of Cleopatra Mykelti kittenator flatulator,
Calling-cards framing those other cats,
Wrestling with an orange and brown Afgan
Slim but phat tunnel-runner big-eyed kitten.
Lovin’ the palm tree, kisses for mommy silly
Rabbit treat-begging troublemaking kitten.
Heart of gold trusting Egyptian princess kitten.
Brave Cleo-kitten.
The Angelkitten.
Realized
Posted: October 18, 1995 in PoetryTags: Bones, Dreams, Earth, Eye, Fire, Flowers, Genie, Horse, Imagination, Magic, Mirror, Naked, Night, Power, Sleep, Snow, Story, Water
Three nights I have lain awake
Storming through half-sleep dreams
And possibilities, thoughts,
Mental magical carpets,
Half real, half realized;
Doors half opened and swinging
Smooth computers peripherally
Analyzing and verifying
Believing yet incredulous
Of the panoramic impossibility.
The stark lightning of imagination
Energized and rampantly naked;
Leaping obstacles with merry, nimble feet
Barely touching – gracing – the earth.
A sweeping wave of everything
Reconditioning, revitalized
Colorization by raw power
Of a reality as credible as anything,
Dreams of genie lamps opening
Construction paper flowers blooming
Water falling, cities lit by their own fires,
Shadows mocking their creators.
Stories so rich in texture
That you live them overnight,
Morning comes when it comes
With the snap of the blind
And a sense of weariness bone deep.
Aches from riding warhorses,
Twinges from old wounds,
Bruises and abrasions that quietly throb,
That you don’t remember receiving.
Nights pass in a variety of times
Lying awake, or so I think,
Chasing reflections in mirrors,
Tuning in to the colored snow
Falling inside my eyelids.
The Pier
Posted: April 2, 1995 in PoetryTags: Beach, Beast, Bed, Breast, Clouds, Fish, Pier, Seagull, Sleep, Water, White, Wind
The pier is flung out past the surf
Into the deep water
Like a sleeper’s unconscious arm
Idly hanging over the edge of the bed.
Sunlight scuba dives for the flickers
Of schools of little fish
And warms the top of the waters –
Where the seaweed loosely hangs
Like bead curtains or piles of laundry. –
Frosting on the cake of the beach.
And the seagulls! Clouds wheeling,
Settling, screeching insults at each other
In the dingy parking lot
At the foot of the pier,
Lone white-breasted panhandlers
Eyeing the people fishing from the deck
From a safe distance.
The swirl of wind-borne sand
By the land-bound pilings,
The whorls of water around its sea legs,
Troughs of wave swells
On their way to the board-straddling surfers
Flash the wealth of sea life
Clinging to the stilled beast.
I leapt off the pier once,
Disobeying one of two white-stenciled laws
That decorate the fading grey-green railings:
One: no jumping or diving;
Two: no overhead casting.
I lost all my air on impact;
Between the shock of wallop and water,
It was all I could do to swim in.
The pier teaches endurance in many ways.
Home to yawns and
pillow-yarn;
sleep dustballs
and quiet
are my poems;
they’re end-of-the-day quirks,
beaten up by
living them through
in my lifetime:
each poem a seperate jewel,
a seperate study
in something.
For Your Majesty
Posted: November 10, 1994 in PoetryTags: Add new tag, Butterfly, Clouds, Dawn, Eye, Faerie, Forest, Grass, Grey, Man, Night, Pan, Rain, Rock, Sky, Sleep, Time, Trees
I
I can imagine a perfect spot
to have a picnic with you today;
the sky is a wee bit grey
at the edges —
I caught as many clouds as I could
with my butterfly net
(I came in wet
early this morning from the rain-dew
on the unmown grass stems).
II
I’ve found a circle of trees
by the brook in the forest
where it takes a toddler’s tumble
over a jumble of rocks;
the moss grows shaggy like old men’s beards
wisping from the branches;
faerie streamers from last night’s revelry —
perhaps Pan was here just a little while ago
rearranging or arranging this spot and my walk.
III
It’s only raining a little bit now
not like how it was this morning —
you were sleeping, darling —
I was watching the whole time;
the same clouds that dampened my socks
were protectively wrapped across your eyes;
It was no surprise that I found it so easy
to slip outside to explore, to find
a real secret garden for your majesty.
[for Dawn]
Nitrogen is to Plants as Poetry is to the Mind
Posted: February 16, 1994 in PoetryTags: Elf, Light, Love, Man, Mind, Money, Porch, Rain, Shadow, Silence, Sleep, Soul, Time, Wind
I
I love you most
when you are sleeping
and around the corner
I am peeping,
shadow in the box of light
that falls from the living room;
I hear the rain is coming soon
from the whish of the wind
‘round the corner of the front porch
lifting the edges of your hair
while you sleep tight.
II
time alone, quiet and silent
a peaceful drizzle outside
and a long nap under my belt
is good for a busy soul,
bustling with errands:
remember the value of free time,
lazy time: laziness is an
art form that can be productive
in its own sense — money
is not everything.
III
the Elves are gone.
it is the Age of Man;
can we continue
pointing arrows
at everyone
until there is
nothing left?
Living a Steady Tautness
Posted: February 12, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beautiful, Coffee, Kiss, Mind, Sleep, Time, Water
Sort of a beautiful frantic hustle
Trying to be effortless;
Carrying motion into motion
From mailbox to appointment
To bank to work to a kiss.
At home to sleep to wake early,
Relax for a moment,
Gather those thoughts,
Hands around a cup of coffee,
Half-finished for a lack of time.
A free moment should show productivity
At least on paper;
Never allow for slack of mind
Because any lack of tension
Leads to play in the rigging
Which must be taken in later —
Running a watertight ship
Is a stair of preventative steps
To make living a steady tautness,
And dying a deserved rest.
Santa Claus
Posted: November 10, 1993 in PoetryTags: Alcohol, Child, Devil, Dreams, Imagination, Knife, Magic, Night, Promise, Road, Santa Claus, Sleep, Song, Wine, Women
Between the Devil and the deep blue sea
there is me and a bottle of Smirnoff™ Vodka
destined to drown me in Davy Jones’ Locker.
The pursuit of happiness, wine, women, and song
goes on like the road that never ends, so long
that it sends itself laughing away ‘till you’re lost
lonely and livid at the stupid kid
that let himself grow up into this;
I learned to eat, sleep, work hard, and miss
being young, strong, and full of inspiration,
dreams, songs, and wise magickal imaginations.
My thoughts were real, my dreams weren’t fantastic.
They were attainable goals – feats of magick.
People had done it and I was going to do it,
going under, ‘round, over, or right through it.
Twenty-two and going under in a different way;
the ocean is grey and the Devil is calling –
bastard chased me through nightmares
every night of my life and the knives
that I cut with shine bright like a promise
that I have chosen unwisely; I’m falling.
Surprising? Dreams don’t come true
and you can trace the cause back to
when you stopped believing in Santa Claus.
One more poem
before I drown into sleep,
filled like a shopping cart
full of food to cook
and eat and explore
with dreams of
department stores.
Gut Feeling
Posted: July 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Animal, Cigarette, Dream, Forest, Love, Sleep
Sometimes I can’t write poetry;
I know this so I don’t try.
so I’ll listen to you stomp around
and play your Steely Dan CD.
I’ll lay on my back, look at the ceiling,
and smoke my cigarette.
Then I’ll dream my best poems
and never write them down,
just wander through them
like a forest of different overstuffed chairs,
like a choir of angel’s hymns.
falling asleep with you mad at me
is something I’m getting used to.
I hear your stomach muttering in your sleep
and I’ll know you’re still wondering
how much I love you.
lighting another cigarette end to end,
I let you know I’m not asleep
if you’re listening.
that is if you’re listening,
behind your stuffed animals,
under the comforter.
I sing and I sing and I sing
to you of dreams I’ve had
and notions that came to me
while I watched you sleeping
and I sang them softly
to you into the little cup of your ear
which never overflows;
it listens and holds all of my nonsense,
but only while you’re sleeping.
only while you’re sleeping.
when the dew-drops poise
on blades of grass I like to
wait until they fall
before I kiss your smooth brow
when I must wake you from sleep.
Impressions
Posted: April 30, 1993 in PoetryTags: Blue, Cat, Dreams, Eye, Flowers, Fountain, Gold, Heart, Mountains, Sleep, Stars, Tide
you’re a kitten curled up
after a day of curious exploration,
ears twitching with dreams
and unconscious poise,
lulled asleep by the intricate rhythm
of your heart rattling in its cage.
you’re two shiny blue eyes like children
on Christmas day, lips slightly parted
and twinkles streaming like the stars
in the Milky Way, one languid arm
of our beautiful, beautiful galaxy.
you’re one sunrise that explodes slowly
over sleepy violet mountains,
the opening of a gigantic flower
or a treasure chest at the end of a quest;
all pouring gold in fountains and cataracts
into the tide around my feet.
Where You Are in the World
Posted: April 13, 1993 in PoetryTags: Dreams, Love, Mind, Night, Rhyme, Sleep, Star, Sword, Tree, Warrior, World
a star winked out in the nighttime sky
and did not return my love
as I cast into the heavens;
a sword standing still
riding my mind like the hip of a warrior.
one oboe quietly mediates the tree’s disputes
about who is shading who
as I am walking through.
there is no medium for art
like the dreams dreamed when all alone
and happy with where you are in the world.
writing to be poetic, prolific
I sometimes wind myself soporific
scratching at the paper making nothing terrific,
just words that rhyme
a line at a time or three
cavorting in silent melodies
like those oboes, sleepy in the trees.
Untitled Poem #145
Posted: January 26, 1993 in PoetryTags: Angel, Dream, Earth, Eye, Heart, Queen, Raiin, Sky, Sleep, Wind
you left me with a scarf
which smelled like your summer rain;
you had worn it in your hair
and I had closed my eyes.
I touched it to my face
and imagined how your breath
would come so close to me
and how I’d hear your heart beating.
you left your scarf behind
a treasure for me to discover
and hold up to the sky
and wear like a queen’s favor.
the scarf is by my bedside
where I can faintly smell your scent.
I will go to sleep tonight
clutching this in my hand.
you, angel, have left your mark
to remind me of my dreams
and how you came to me
as the smell of earth and wind.
A shower, then sleep
enables a creep to feel clean
and to dream, napping soundly
through the rest of the night.
The Testament of Plymouth Garibaldi
Posted: December 20, 1992 in PoetryTags: Drink, Fear, Ghoul, Sleep, Street
I try to keep awake and watch the street
While Alan, friend and roommate, tries to sleep.
We take turns every night and sometimes treat
Ourselves to tugging off of something cheap.
I wake up in a sweat because I think
My turn to watch was now, when I had slept;
And Alan knows, he hands me a stiff drink
To chase away the ghouls from where they’ve crept.
Some lonely nights we both stay up and wait
To see if one is hiding ‘round the store,
Or walking past our window with that gait,
Or crouching with a whisper at our door.
Six months ago – it seems as many years –
I didn’t dare believe or know to fear.
Cat Hide
Posted: September 7, 1992 in PoetryTags: Cat, Closet, Dark, Eye, Father, Imagination, Moon, Mother, Night, Sleep, Tree
I am the prickle
which makes your mother start
and cover your eyes
as if you, being young
don’t know the fear of the closet.
I am the voice that whispers
through the crack;
all that’s left when
the door is shut tight,
caressing you with words
from a green foot-long tongue,
slithering out from the darker dark.
I am the clothes that hang
from all the hangers,
swaying in the imaginary breeze
of a hanging tree in the moonlight,
the one they told you about at camp.
I am the nightmare
created by frustrated imaginations
living in the people
who inhabit your house.
I frighten your strong father
and terrify your poor mother
– this alone scares you.
I am the noise
so slightly out of place,
that each of you lies awake,
debating whether to see what it was
or go back to an uneasy sleep.
I leave your closet doors
open just a little
for you to find in the morning.
I stopped after the rains
to listen to the silver frogs chanting,
who I could never find
when I wanted to watch them sing.
I could hear their beautiful piping
from my little room,
and I fell asleep to their chorus
in the light of the sun setting.
where am I going tonight?
crowded subway train
full of sleepy dreamers;
it never stops, but they get off.
somehow I don’t notice,
surrounded by nightclothes
that are empty.
I fly away
to a mountain top
and let my breath fall
to the valley,
happy in sleep.
beautiful bat wings,
and strength,
watching plants grow,
my mountain eroding,
everything melting.
I plunge to tear out the heart
of an evil man,
crashing against his hairy breast
and falling
to the pavement,
staring at his shoes
as he, not noticing, watered his lawn
into my eyes.
Froggacuda's Weblog 