a little after midnight
and still the noise is my head;
although i lie here, clinging
to images of hope or dread
or what all else my mind can form
from what it daily thinks and sees:
and these vague thoughts I’m not the host
but, rather,
the disease
dreams of the wind in the ice and the snow,
carnivals taciturn, wheels that don’t go,
echoes that cannot reach kin, friend or foe,
these are the dreams i’ve been keeping —
nuclear solitude, Chernobyl field,
habits of thought and the snow that they yield,
faltering canopies, senses all reeled —
my sorry self should be sleeping
my sorry self should be sleeping
[Originally posted 9-3-2014. – Owen]
Blankness presses down on me
And all seems but futility
The light that lately shone is gone
And much there is to dwell upon
Of friendships lost and jobs half-done
Of contests I have never won
The sound of lambs beside the sea
I always hear nocturnally
And dull blue chaos fills my ears
With no blanket to drape my fears
A prison cell in lieu of bed
Depression’s madness
In
My
Head
I really should be sleeping, but
I hard ever really do,
A thing not unexpected,
Given age
For I’d observed for many years
That sleep’s the province of the young;
And so I’m not surprised, now,
At this stage,
That I am an insomniac
(of a peculiar kind)
I get to sleep okay, but then,
Am wakened by a mind
That’s into problem solving, and
Gets up before I do;
And back at work before
A half-night’s sleep is even through
I really should be sleeping, but
That just is not my destiny:
The road I’m on’s the one
I have to take
But though I’ll walk the earth today
And wear my open eyes,
I do not think I’ll really
Be awake
the neurons fire and misfire,
branch gives way to branch;
i think in random, stupid ways
that ought to make one blanch
but i am past embarrassment,
a creature born of stress;
the neurons fire and misfire,
my mind is just
a mess
If only I could maybe sleep
And had some other hobby,
Then it would not be 2 AM
With me down in this lobby
With celebrating football fans,
Who’re wound up way too tight —
If only I could maybe sleep
Instead of write
All night
i wish that i was not awake
and up to see this time of night,
and that i wasn’t wondering
‘how many rounds left in this fight’?
if i could live out past the stretch
between the towns of ache and harm
i’d buy a hammock, and a book,
and hydroponic farm,
and concentrate the love i feel
for you, for them, for pity’s sake,
and plant out past the edge of dreams
and reap my harvest
not awake
If she could shut her feelings off,
She’d would, Lord knows she would –
She’s tired of the tossing and
The turning —
If she could leave it all behind,
She banish it for good –
She’s wise enough:
She’s done with all this
Learning
Across the cloudy moonlit sky,
As midnight tolls the hour of doubt,
In long formation, headed out,
A seagull flock goes flying by
They know they must, and so they fly,
The restlessness, it drives them on,
As my mind echoes, still, till dawn
The gull-at-midnight’s
Mournful
Cry
