"jetlag" poems
Narrow single fall-out bedroom fear,
Four poster dreaming fantasy love,
King size suite is playing-field empty,
Twin queens wondering if just for queens.
Hard or soft, big or small, no fun alone.
These sleepless thoughts caused,
By ever increasing jetlagged jetlag,
Which now feels more like hangover,
But incurable with a walk or hair of the dog.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.
Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322
Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.
They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...
I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.
Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.
So wie ist das Leben...
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
It's almost two in the morning
and I miss you
like a lot
and I'm not sure exactly
how even to express it
because lately it's been weird
but I haven't been very inspired.
And for you,
it's almost six in the evening
and I hope you miss me
but not too much.
But I've learned a little bit
that being even father apart
from your smile
isn't all that difficult,
until I'm falling asleep
as you're starting the afternoon
and you're falling asleep
as I wake up.
And so it's just a bit harder
to tell you I love you
as often as I want to,
but as it's two in the morning
while it's six in the evening,
I hope that you know
how much you really mean to me
and how much I hate missing you
but I absolutely can't help it
at two in the morning
when I think of you laughing
and try to recreate
feeling your hand in mine
with my own fingers,
hoping that at six in the evening
you're thinking of my teasing
and wanting our kisses
just as much as I do.
Since we won't be together
tomorrow at midnight,
I guess I'll be sending
my New Year's kiss
over a text message,
relying on
my slow wifi
and your bad reception.
Think of it as a placeholder, I guess,
at least until the next time I see you.
Cause even at my two in the morning
or even at your six in the evening
it's the very best thing
I can think of to be doing.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Time and space unidentifiable
Afloat midair—hands and feet
Reasons and instincts, a hazy distance
Focus.
Stumbling awkwardly—a dull thud—all faults are revealed
On one ankle, a societal ***** tightens
Calloused by sharp emotions, numbed on hardened skin
I, on show behind the glass case—but that isn't me
All the truths became fiction, therefore I became a lie
Cake this mind of mine with makeup, don't let the sadness smear
A whirlpool, a hollow core, conflicted once again
At this point—although overdue:
Can this muddy rock still become the promised pearl?
A lurking presence of my fading self
In an unknown place, out of reach
There's the brutal wind, crashing-
Stumbling again, trampling in dust
Did the colours just fade?
My vision has never been this grey
That vibrant self of mine, where has it gone-
Is it gone
"Without conditions you must struggle,"
Those people aren't my enemies, don't misunderstand
There simply was nobody by my side
Walking this place alone so no one could hurt me—backfired
The world looks so noisy from the outside
Better readjust that person of mine
So I can at least fall asleep some day, even if by accident
To recover from this senseless jetlag of emotions
Traveled within the strict space of a room
I'll breathe it well—the last cold gush of air
To those creatures who coexisted within me
Have you all been well?
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
Suitcases get tagged, prepare for jetlag
As you mount the stairs to the plane
Four layovers on your way over
You hope it doesn't drive you insane
Announcements vague as your house slips away
Leaving for another country
You flew the globe and moved your home
Five times before you were twenty
Now the transit stays just can't faze
Your ******** travel attitude
You never feel sick with the seats you pick
And adjust well to the altitude
But something inside nags and asks why
You're always in constant motion
You wonder how it would feel now
If you'd never crossed that ocean
You forget the feeling and just quit dealing
With memories left behind
But the thoughts come back, you've got some packed
In the luggage of your mind
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
My jetlag had finally bid adieu in a land,
republic and former colony the size of my thumb,
but with the strength of bulls on steroids
running through
a field of democratic china shops.
and your money's no good here.
your name,
that silly outfit from little oz.
I have no pictures of myself here.
only a porcelain-plated version in orchid hues,
dwarfed by my favorite ivory window.
from which the fall would most certainly be glorious for
5
4
3
2
seconds.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 5:25 PM UTC
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.
Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322
Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.
They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...
I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.
Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.
So wie ist das Leben...
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC
I'm leaving this
a little late
I hesitate
procrastinate
but soon
I'll see my son
across the sea
I'll see him
he'll see me
Jetlag is
a horrid hell
but then we'll have
some tales to tell
I wonder what
those tales will be
when I return
across the sea
We'll have to wait
and see
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 6:29 AM UTC
1,000 miles from the Merry Christmas muzak in Port Moresby
Fat Brisbane taxi philosopher’s poor mouth moaning season
Navan road Sydney AMEX girl pining for the cold in Dublin
Along with traditional stuffing of turkey ham and trimmings.
10,000 miles to London via sticky Bangkok “Merry Clistmas”
And cattle class envy of First class lounge showers mid-flight
But Jetlag is the same nightmare at both ends of the plane
As we fly across the universe to be home for Christmas.
1,000,000 people flying to their friends and families
Do all those sad, glad, bad, mad once-a-year reunions
Make it to Happy New Year without killing each other
Resolving to be prosperous, viceless and happy again?
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
living on two hours
of "sleep"
groggy doesn't even begin
to describe
the disorientation.
how do i walk
It's midnight!
not noon!
Someone get me a latte.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
10 hours, 2 hours, 4 hours, 9
Stop, start, wait, eat,
Can’t sleep
Fall in a heap
At the terminal
Feeling terminal
As time zones shift beneath me
Rearranging sequences on a metaphysical scale
Flight fail
Stuck here again now
Another 2 hours I’ll never get back
Meetings here and yonder
Time to ponder
Falls victim to jetlag
As I sag under the burden of my workstyle
A carousel of different faces
Fleeting encounters of disparate races
But it’s all worth it
When I can drop the charade
And wrap my arms around
My welcome home parade
~ L. Alexander Carlé
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 5:07 PM UTC
silent defeat
down rosy worn out cheeks
once my moon has risen
to its highest peak;
where are your rough fingertips
to wipe away my storm?
pulling back the blinds
to block out your sun.
Sleep now before they wake
for your night has reached its end
and mine has just begun.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
The feeling I had
When I crossed
The time you loved me
To the time you left me.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 3:45 AM UTC
talking about last night dust
i can promise you
miles of sand dunes
only to fill
your empty lungs
breathless.
or we could
move our souls away
to the north
so the loss of time
will be forever
painless.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
To be awake for thirty six hours and it not be strange
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC