Skip to main content

Fine Lines Between the Sheets

Sleep, that juggernaut of consciousness,
Washed over me, beguiling in its way
Of easing us toward the darkness.

With eloquence, it bade my mind
“Good evening,” and then made it so.
Truncating formalities with heavy lids.

Conquered, I lay there, inching inward,
Feeling the wind now, the sempiternal
Soul caught between two worlds, each alluring.

A blur, a not-sure-where-I-am, but I know,
Know this form, this intention tension,
To follow or to lead him to the

End. To the final story, where he will lay
His pen down on the paper like eggs on land,
Reptile-like, he’ll slither into nothing, as is his wont.

And the air will be moist with
Fresh rain, and someone alluding
To meaning, and tomorrow, and

Then I wake and pick up the pen.

--

Mad Words List 5.1.18

Juggernaut
Impetuous
Truncate
Allude
Conquer
Eloquent
Mischievous
Sempiternal
Moist
Reptile
Wind
Wont
Inch
Beguiling
Allure

--

I’ve often been fascinated with dreaming, with being asleep, the act of falling out of consciousness, more so because of being enamored with consciousness. For so many hours, we surrender ourselves on missions to rewire our minds. And at times, the rewiring is enlightening and brings forth new ideas from one realm to the next. Who can say if the idea would have existed without the dream showing us the way?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Yins and Yangs

Just this minute, the white-tailed Magpies are finding themselves In the verdant glades of the Rockies, As the aspens, fresh green, quake in the wind. They know nothing of Jon Snow, Or the window on the second floor Where I look out, remembering, Longing for apricity, the sun on my face. But the gloam is settling in, And the magpies will soon be seeking Windows of their own To look out of. And I think the shadows on my page Are cast like dark rainbows - made of light And things in the way. Awe-inspiring shapes I couldn't see in the dark. Is it best to be inside or Outside? Or can I be moved To appreciate this Pedulumic cycle - To be tossed, fro and to, Between creation and decay, Between sunrise and Sunset? Do you feel the loam in your hands, How rich it is when you dig deeper? Do you admire how perfectly The lilac blossom, with its powerful redolence, Seeks your attention as if to say, "Stay outside for a while." As my colleague yamm
Post a Comment
Read more

Bonus Poem: Peonies in a Paper Bag

Out of the earth, stems cut, And into the glass. A spectacle, a marvel, A reminder of the Outside, placed inside. They dazzled for days And then one by one They drooped, stooped over the Cold, round edge of the Vase, reaching for the door. And she said, "It's time, These must go. They might delight a few more Days, but no! Look at this Single one limping. They must Go." And into that brown bag They were buried, without ceremony Or song, amid napkins and other plastic Horribles. And that's how I found them. Heartbroken, Ruffled like goose feathers, Waiting to be taken out Again. To feel the air, Even if it would be among The dead and uncompostables, let their feathers Rest back into the earth They were clipped from. "Let us wilt in the place We call home," they said. And I just wanted to caress One - its soft, pink goose feathers - And tell it that it was the Most beautiful thing I had Seen all day. The most beautiful refuse,
Post a Comment
Read more

Wisteria Vines

Sometimes I have to remember How gently the wisteria trees Sway in a sunshower. How the gossamers built with patience Must sometimes be built again, And again, and again without complaint. I have to listen for the laughter The one you'd almost miss if you were Too worried about the symmetry of the seams On the dress your mother sewed And you re-sowed. “Be at ease.” That lithe voice whispered, smiling. I imagine there on the front porch A child with golden hair and Sapphire eyes, planting a huge basium On the family pup’s nose, and they both Turn shyly and grin at my future. “Mommy, let's play,” she says, and I know it's everything. Everything I ever wanted. To play. To delight In words dancing on pages and Make the dirt at my feet into ballrooms. “It's not a tempest, my dear, only A little rain, swaying the wisteria Blooms.” My mother again holds my hand. The hand that would one day Write about what howl
Post a Comment
Read more