She’s sleeping there on the chaise,
on her face a gentle look;
dreaming no doubt of flowers,
and quiet hours with a book.
Her eyes are closed, her heart eased,
and I am pleased that she rests;
May her dreams be sweet and kind,
and may she find peaceful hours.
When she wakes in the morning
may the day bring her gladness
filled with laughter and sunshine
and a decline in sadness.
I listen to her soft snore,
wanting no more than her joy;
she fills where I am nothing,
and brings happiness sublime.
01 APR 2004
at one a.m., when sleep won’t come
and my thoughts ramble, loose
in my head like marbles in a tin can,
the night air still oppressive and thick
under the carport where my cigarettes
call out their siren’s song,
silence and the cicadas drowned out
by the abrasive whirr of central air units
next door, down the street, one block over,
my body falling down with tired
that my too-wired mind
refuses to acknowledge:
these are the manic times, the hours
that stretch out until dawn and burn
what wax is fresh and virgin clean
from the candlestick that moves
this weary flesh from stock still meat
to animus. in a minute, these few lines
will finish — then a smoke on the front lawn,
a cup of chilled green tea,
a half-assed yoga pose to tease
my weary bone-tired joints,
then off to lay in bed awake
and count the minutes
until they blur together in a hazy
alpha state where no new dreams come —
they are afraid to disturb,
to start anew the wheels of cognition
that so obviously need
the lubrication of a soothing slumber.
29 AUG 2003
There are some that make you feel guilt and shame
about those few extra hours in your bed
on a stray Saturday morning, eyes red
after a late night and work-week; they blame
you for the world not being up to speed,
or for nothing getting done around here;
but if you want a little time to clear
away negative energy, you need
to close your ears along with your tired eyes
and hit the snooze button; the world will wait
at least that long to require your input.
Besides, it’s not like there aren’t other guys
who manic, wake at dawn to test their fate;
revved that damn high, they will soon go kaput.
22 FEB 2003
It’s one in the morning; only the cat
and I are still awake at this late hour.
It (cat) sleeps during the daylight so that
when no one is watching it can devour
the remnants of an evening meal, making
a good excuse for it to wake us up
early. But I’ve no such undertaking
to keep me so alert, sipping a cup
of cooled chamomile and just listening
to the sound of her breathing as she sleeps,
dreaming of gardens and happy squirrels.
By the light of the pale moon, glistening
through the panes, her peaceful face makes me weep;
right now, that one sight contains my whole world.
21 JAN 2003
How many strange nights have I spent awake,
only to move through the next whole day dull,
like a somnambulist who heedless, takes
mad walks through the world of dreams, softly lulled
through some forgettable conversation
by a bright chimera of quiet thought
that hides in its draining deprivation
the night’s battle to be joined, and hard fought
so that the body’s natural rhythm
can be re-established and set to rights?
In these slow hours that drag before the dawn
I sense between mind and soul a schism,
a rended veil between the dark and light,
that with the rising sun, pretends it’s gone.
11 JAN 2003