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Benjamin Apr 2018
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Marcus Bandy Oct 27
This is the last time,
How often have I said that?
Why do I crave what I detest?
So many I know can relate.

Evil boasts of many captives.
After feeling love and light,
Why do the lost flee?
Pursued and impounded by their ghost.

The sacrifice for truth is comfort.
Yet life is simple for people undeterred,
No vision but the material.
They scoff at the spiritual world

Rebirth awaits our soul,
Though some are bound to fall.
Not all light shines from the sky.
With angels working both sides,
Darkness seems illumined to the untrained eye..
Sleepless AM
Azaria May 2018
you alive
next to me
laying your glasses
on the night table
with your
unruffled
prescence  
seizing the
night like loving
you through
the winter-months
and waiting
your whole
life to tell
you
i'm so happy you're alive.
When the sleeper ‘sleeps’

He wakes, on the other side

Of Plato’s Cave

And sees time and time again

Often in fragmented consciousness

The world that truly is

“Bigger on the ‘inside’”

“Smaller on the ‘outside’”


It’s like forever standing

Within a mirrored cylinder ring

Keeping faith to its seeming

Infinity

Even though only

Reflections are being seen


Reflections of the

Geometry of love

Thoughts

Unseen beings

Consciousness

And

Gravity


These and more

Floats around the exterior

Of this thin fabric of reality

Bumping into us occasionally

Letting us feel its obscured shape

But never witness its true property


Only through momentary slumber

When we open our minds eye

And peeks at the other side

When we drift away-

Unguarded by our perspective-

Through all of spacetime

And drift closer to the veil

As if through a plastic foil

Can we see and softly touch

The ‘matters’ of truth in life


See the wrinkles

And ripples in time?

That’s where runaway dreams

And forgotten past hide

You will see yours

And even all of mine


That’s why I can live

Again and again your happiness

And joys of mine

With near absolute clarity

Manifested through twinges

And longing

With the help of the night


That’s why

When the sleeper ‘wakes’

He can no longer

Bear this world of bright shadows

And must rush back

To the brilliant world

Under the dark sunlight


That's why

I leave the lies for the morning

And truth for the night

When you're weary of

My dazzling praises

You can dream among

The starry sentiments

Of my moonless sky
When the Sleeper Wakes in Sleep

By: Yue Xing ****

Tuesday, January 29, 2019
Joliver Aug 2018
When I was young
I found amusement
In my ability to sleep through storms
And other calamitous events
It seemed so silly to me
That something so obvious
Could go by unnoticed
But as I've gotten older
The nights have gotten subtler
The nightmares have
Become vivid reflections
A gruesome parody of life
I startle awake most nights and
I don't sleep so well anymore
-
I wonder when I stopped being
A deep sleeper
And began fearing
Waking up a second too late
nowhere to go
noone to be when i get there
im all alone
a refugee from humanity
going spare
got to go on
get going or get gone
get off at the next stop
regardless
between here and eternity
or seize the controls
let it roll
take the brakes off
see what fate offers
crashing headlong
forever headstrong
into the buffers theyve erected
marking the end of my line
"One lie weakens a thousand truths."

"Time heals, steals and reveals."

"Karma finishes what revenge neglects."

"The future is uncertain, but we play a part in its design."

"Help when you can, pray when you can't."

"If your life is out of focus, it's time to change the lens."

"Honesty is in the alcohol."

"The only thing better than a second chance is never needing one."

"Sometimes the most valuable company is yourself."

"Instincts over impulse, always."

"The greatest comeback is the one least expected."

"Fear is a light sleeper."

"You can't change the past, but it can change you."

"Some are born with a silver spoon, others with a pitchfork."

"Even the smallest of pebbles has its place in the sand."

"The humble voice resonates the loudest."

"Write your failures in pencil, your triumphs in ink."

"Scars speak every language."

"Two things you should always trust: your gut and your God."

"Every tear leaves something behind."

"Courage brings you to the fight, wisdom wins it."

"Relationships start and end, but the lucky ones get to begin again."

"The devil doubts. The angel accepts."

"Biggie makes you dance. Tupac makes you think."

"Justice is money green."

"The only thing better than good friends are lifelong ones."

"I'm in a fight with life and I'm losing on points."

"We are remembered for three things: the times we did good, the times we did bad and the times we did nothing."

"Every underdog wants to be top cat."

"Love never travels alone."

"Dreams reveal what thoughts conceal."

"The problem with the world is the wolves outnumber the sheep."

"You can't spell tragedy without rage."

"Focus on the valley and the hills will disappear."

"When you ignore pain, it ignores you."

"The past and future are distant cousins."

"Hope is always listening."

"Moonlight is for lovers and devils."

"Nothing will get you in better shape than a breakup."

"Time is a tattletale."

"Sometimes all that's left is a penny and a wish."

"There's a special place in heaven for those who suffer on earth."

"We are connected by smiles and tears."

"The mirror mimics what the mind imagines."

"If infidelity was a crime they would have to build more prisons."

"What the blind man sees, the sighted man seeks."

"The ego is a phony friend."

"Luck will take you as far as fate allows."

"Two things that never forget: elephants and broken hearts."

"My train of thought has no conductor."
Michael Bryant Dec 2018
I listen to the pulse of worlds-
the music of the spheres
is ever-present in my ears.
The life-beat of planets and of stars
runs in my body-
never still,
while in my mind
the silence reigns-
the silence of a universe.
I am a child of the sun,
a brother to the moon and stars.
A fragment of them all,
and all in one:
I am a universe sublime:
I am a Sleeper at the Gates of Time.
Caio Consoli Apr 2018
When life Ends;
It comes Along;
He and his Friends;
Waited for so Long;
~
The end is Near;
In the Night;
Fell the Fear;
Try to Fight;
~
They are Here;
There's no Escape;
And you're Mere;
Just an Ape;
~
He is Nature;
Honorably Unstoppable;
And to Capture;
You're not Knowlegeable;
~
Life isn't Fair;
You'll Lose;
And in Despair;
We shall Choose;

~

He's Sneaky;
Death's Calm ;
Also Tricky;
On his Palm;
~
Just Surrender;
Do not Taunt;
With no Gender;
It will Haunt;
~
What have you Done?;
It passed By;
You had just One;
Oh My...
~
You won't Rest;
Death's Endless;
In this Nest;
Of Greatness;
~
For the Reaper;
You'll Fall;
Be a Sleeper;
That's all.
The one, The only
iamtheavatar Mar 2017
Wake up sleeper!
Your summer days are over.
Tidy up and prepare for winter,
lest you be caught off guard.

For we have a steeple with lots of faces,
and symbols and catchphrases,
and pulpits and pews

—but never a
Duluoz and Kerouac.

And do not mistake
silence for absence.
And patience for
impotence.

For just as the sun rises
from the east.
So shall justice be served
for the least.

So then, let us say:

May our days be numbered,
and our troubles few.
And may this sweet surrender
bring us life anew.

**iamthe_avatar ©2017
A poem for love.
Spenser Bennett May 2016
In false light reflected we stare deeply into eyes the same.
Searching for Truth and finding ourselves shimmering cold over the still lake alone unflinching in the weight of eternity and her majestic indifference; blink.
A madness of heaven reaching through the water below to stir the silent sleeper of your soul, come forth from your depths and breathe the silk air you once knew.
All is glistening in the not so distant morning where the sun roars ancient and abysmal.
Where once Truth sighed heavy into shadow she will once more open like the lily seeking her sky born love.
Despair fades from eyes now clear blue like the sky and the rain washes away anger like dust from your kissed skin.
We blossom into light petals of ultra green and hyper white and dance as the joyous breeze allows.
Soon the darkness must fall again and we shall curl away to forgive the fallacious star that drowns out so many more.
False light will search us for the desperate Truth we hide.
A waking dream that danced on the edge of my eyes into the bright warmth of the sun.
shamamama Apr 28
One drop of Dragon's breath
Stirs sleeper from dreamtime,

She wakes from the womb of creation
Where shadows dance into form
And reflections live in the past

Bound from silken fibers,
This ancient changeling,
Slowly creeps from cocoon.

Perching on branch
Impulses of flight and
A longing for air and nector
Breathe life into capillaries
And Rivulets newly knit.

Unfurling shape in patient sunlight,
Wings born of a great sleep
Reach into the light,
Waiting for droplets of life
To pulse in her being
Unveiling an opportunity
To fledge.

Where does her life begin and end?
She lives like a drop of water in a cloud.
Changing form from river to ocean
Evaporating to rise and fall
As snowflake on frozen pond

Where does beginning begin?
She  perches on tree of life
As sap flows life into her veins
Like a tree she waits.

Once Caterpiller
Once in darkness
Now life as Milkweed angel.
Butterflies are a beautiful mystery to me.  My latest understanding is when they go through metamorphosis, they literally turn into liquid to reform.This has me in awe!
Ainnoot Sep 15
I wanted to kiss you goodbye,
but you’re such a light sleeper.
You were dancing with the angels, I could tell.
You were smiling with no worries,
I know life can be hell.
Couldn’t disturb your peace,
when you make my pain ease.
I wanted to hug you goodbye, your arms feel safe.
You are my haven, but I’ll tell you at my pace.
I will repay my debt.
You gave me all the right things,
when I had nothing left.
Anyone can be a mother, but you earned that title. I was leaving and wanted to dismiss myself, but you had a long night.

You became a mom to me and I thank you for it.

https://www.instagram.com/the7thsunday
The uniVerse May 2015
Always thinking
what am I thinking?
lets start writing
should be sleeping
why am I thinking?
I need to sleep now
bored of sheep, lets try cows
maybe I should count the spots
or connect the dots
of my thoughts....

Dalmatians are the cow canine
ten, eleven, twelve
deeper I delve
sleeper I'm not
wide awake, no
half baked dough
money makes the world go round
funny how it doesn't make a sound
yet people are so loud
it's not needed
nod your head when greeted
nod your head when agreeing
or leaving, deceiving, grieving
maybe thats bowing
bow your head when grieving
Robin Hood had merry men
and they were thieving
still need to be sleeping
dreaming........

If only I could dream of you
as we sail the ocean blue
you would get sea sick
and I would drown quick
this is how my dreams end
much like our relationship
conscious thoughts
maligned with nonsense fraughts
I fraught of you today
tonight, this night
every night
you my light
my darkness
my rainbow
tied around your neck
so delicate
a pretty little thing
no tongue ring yet
butterflies
toast lands sunny side
glass half empty
I'm half fool
a joker in the pack
Batman that's a fact
I only come out at night
your caped crusader
I tried to save her
but the current dragged her under
she now resides in the depths of my mind
a shipwreck
my Mary Rose
how I loved your eyes and nose
and everything attached
did I remember to put the door on the latch?
turn off the oven
come give me loving
and affection
Marvin Gaye, Joan Armatrading
sing to me so I can sleep
sheep, cow, dalmatian, sheep..........
https://www.instagram.com/p/Bk3hn7Fl4kK/
Brian McDonagh May 2018
Netted on the outside
Dreams pass through the inside.
The good dreams seep the center,
The bad dreams are caught: DO NOT ENTER!
The sleeper with eyes shut,
Protected by the dreamcatcher
And selected by the buy-snatcher,
Slumbers in peace
When all is at ease
Around the dreamcatcher police.
Reality is still
But the mind is awake
And sleep is at stake.
Eyes cannot detect
What the dreamcatcher does,
It only sways in the midst of a glance.
But the dreams that pass the glass dividing atmospheric gas
Cannot be seen, touched, heard.
Dreamcatchers have a radar
That no being does.
The dreams charge at once!
WOOOOSH.
Not a dream is heard
Caught in the dreamcatcher grid,
But the good ones
Keep clean the REM zones.
Native-American tradition
I will surely petition.
I have two dreamcatchers in my room; I love the culture, tradition, and protection they offer!
Spenser Bennett May 2016
Slow depth and hearts breadth
It's a golden show, how little we know
I, I wonder wonder just a little bit
Bit by bit we fall in to the grace of love
So much more, a morning rose before
Time is wandering and my feet faltering
Will seek the end of my becoming
Becoming myself in the Great Belief

Further up and further in
I swear I saw you in that lion skin
And I could not explain my wild cares
As I rest upon the tarnished chair

Better now than before the open door
Show the light unto the dark of this world heart
Watch it bleed and howl with me
A savior is hidden in the stranger from the well
Draw the love into the light and quell your desire
Desire is the death of acceptance

Further up and further in
I swear I saw you in that lion skin
And I could not explain my wild cares
As I rest upon the tarnished chair

Let me bend to break and burn this stake
I've found all my rivers amongst your veins
Now we're feeling free of the oppression
Now we're oppressing our living frame

No voices come from the wood oh but what voices could
Surely those brittle trees, and those buzzing bees
I, I hope hope you will find
Find me dreaming of your graceful song
So much less, the empty minds blessed
Truth is eternal keeper and dear sleeper
Will breathe the dream of undoing
Undoing the Great Deceit

Further up and further in
Again and again
Until the end
Just more nonsense. Needs some work.

A few C.S. Lewis references involved here. As well as some Hesse. And Tagore.
Zeeb Jul 2015
Hotrod
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?  The good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.  He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding.  He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy out.    Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.   Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
Fire extinguisher? “ Right there”
Battery? “Charged and connected”
Neutral?  “yes”
Brake?  “Set”
And with hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence, in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw  a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.   One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times.  Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, white blouse slightly unbuttoned,  both in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the bone yard.  Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0.030” overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work truck from which it came.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications “on the mark”, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy stayed  worried the whole time, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.  “ You can compromise on paint”,” live with some rust”, he would say,  “wait for good tires”, “but never scrimp on the engine”.  Right on.  You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  They were looking out for the boy.  The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability, and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit – to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to “red-line”, and it keeps pulling hard and delivering power while spinning fast because it is breathing right and proper and producing the power that thrills, and the only reason to shift gears is to preserve connecting rods, eager as the engine may be to rev further!

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    


He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!


Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The ’55 I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job” channeled “Two Lane Blacktop”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can, and the owner of this ’55 had done just that. 

Two things seem to be at play here.  One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.   Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, the racer replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.   I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

End
Michael Marchese Jan 2018
You think words can’t hurt
Or reign down from the skies
I’ve red little handbooks
That say otherwise
I got history’s vengeance
Packed mean at my side
Cruisin’ free like Zheng He
In that Normandy Tide
Got these war orchestrators
Class consciously mute
Guess these urban invaders
Can’t handle Pan’s flute
In the jungle you feel it
I’m stalking my prey
Scalpin’ tix of head-shavers
From **** CIA
‘Cuz I spy with my eye
A bomb-dropping peace keeper
And wake up the crowd
Like a Soviet sleeper
Evan Stephens Sep 23
Black Madonna,
gazing from a
golden cage,
the iron-headed night
is heavy with song.
Lifted sleeper
in a shining field,
is your vague
gesture something
like forgiveness?
he doesnt get it, how do i tell him i think about if hes talking to her specifically at least once a day, if not more, knowing full well he will in fact talk to her at least one of those days, and knowing that he will try to ignore the excitement but ultimately it would fill him and he will again wonder how far he can take it? i'm laying in his arms but hes not holding me, a star fish sleeper, the best time to confirm every voice screaming in my head is right, and theyre right, and i can feel the distance between us like a sickness in my veins, and he can feel it too but he wont open his eyes to the truth of why this distance keeps us at odds. i'm ******* tired. so is he. the difference is, i dont sleep.
*** k

read it fast
Renee Danes Nov 15
A lively fellow
A helpful sort
Found hunting and fishing
To be a good sport
One day he resolved
To go to the wood
To shoot a fowl
The idea sounded good
He saw a man a-walking
And so he went on talking
And helped the man carry a keg
Of beer or spirits or something,
Came to a strange valley
Found bowling pins
Not a bowling alley
Some weird men that were a-bowling,
Now while this was about
He came and took a draught
Of the keg and he found out
He felt he ought to sleep.
He woke up by a tree
His hunting gun, rusty,
His dog nowhere to be seen
And thought of those things
That happened before he slept
He swept his feet away to find
The place that he had left,
Strange confusion filled his face
For couldn't find the place
Where he was sure it had been
So he left again,
He went to his hometown
Changed in many ways
The people, tavern, and his house
Had all suddenly changed
He inquired of some people
About his missing friends
And to our surprise
This Rip Van Winkle guy
Had slept through the American Revolution!
We read Rip Van Winkle in English class today, I thought it would make a hilarious fun friday poem. Your Welcome ;p
Jen Jan 2
Fog dissipated to the sheen and splendor of
Bursts that broke through twilight’s embrace
Released from their cages by night’s keeper
Right before daybreak, awakened the sleeper.
Beyond the Veil of Our Inverted Universe:

I must wander

Beyond the thinnest part

Of our inverted universe

As we are outside of living


Living the whole of a dream

While dreaming

Fragments of

The Mirror of

‘Reality’


Truth is only to be felt

For we see

Only what we wanted to see

And think

Only what we wanted to think


But only feelings

From sparks of infatuation

To chasms of the deepest sorrow

Is authentic

In and of itself

Mercilessly

Beyond our desperate

Need for control


And there

Beyond the veil

Of false possessions

And

Expectations



Is

You


The authentic truth

Of

You


Beyond all thoughts

Rationality and

Physicality


Merely an intense feeling

Intertwined

With the untamed feeling of me


Two branches of lightning

Bursting through pure darkness

Briefly revealing the

Landscape of our universe

With the collision

Of our pure

Being






















When the Sleeper Wakes in Sleep:

When the sleeper ‘sleeps’

He wakes, on the other side

Of Plato’s Cave

And sees time and time again

Often in fragmented consciousness

The world that truly is

“Bigger on the ‘inside’”

“Smaller on the ‘outside’”


It’s like forever standing

Within a mirrored cylinder ring

Keeping faith to its seeming

Infinity

Even though only

Reflections are being seen


Reflections of the

Geometry of love

Thoughts

Unseen beings

Consciousness

And

Gravity


These and more

Floats around the exterior

Of this thin fabric of reality

Bumping into us occasionally

Letting us feel its obscured shape

But never witness its true property


Only through momentary slumber

When we open our minds eye

And peeks at the other side

When we drift away-

Unguarded by our perspective-

Through all of spacetime

And drift closer to the veil

As if through a plastic foil

Can we see and softly touch

The ‘matters’ of truth in life


See the wrinkles

And ripples in time?

That’s where runaway dreams

And forgotten past hide

You will see yours

And even all of mine


That’s why I can live

Again and again your happiness

And joys of mine

With near absolute clarity

Manifested through twinges

And longing

With the help of the night


That’s why

When the sleeper ‘wakes’

He can no longer

Bear this world of bright shadows

And must rush back

To the brilliant world

Under the dark sunlight


That's why

I leave the lies for the morning

And truth for the night

When you're weary of

My dazzling praises

You can dream among

The starry sentiments

Of my moonless sky






















A Brief History of that Muse Song:

The weight of thoughts

We hold deep within

Gather and increase in mass

Till we’re beings of immense gravity

Attracted at the moment of first contact

Never letting go


Even through the unseeable distance

I can still feel your pull-

Feel time stretch into infinity

Feel nothing else within my hold-

From our fateful event horizon


Even though we’re both vessels

Of very little voices

We’re far from empty

We’re far from silent-

With every unspoken word-

Not let out to wander and

Disperse-

We bear the roaring wrath

Of neutron stars deep within

Our Soul


And such

Is our ‘Density’






















Purity:

I believe that

Names can physically

Mold a being

Without human intentions

As accidental drops of ink

Muddies the water

Yours follow the opposite

And being true to its essence

You are indeed eternally ‘PURE’


Pure, in the winter lakes

Of your soft pensive eyes

Color of the earth, the dust of existing


Pure, in the crescent

Of your laughing eyes

Hiding no sorrow

Dragging me along with you

When it descends


Pure

In the ripples of your soul

As I felt every drop

Seen in your dazzling smile

Unseen, in the dreamer’s dream


And I, indeed a dreamer

The ‘MOON’, the ‘STARS’, and

‘A MYTHICAL JEWEL’

That radiates not

Within or without

Except under or carrying

Your light


If only I can be your moon

A source of comfort but

Only at your darkest

Never to steal your shine


Except

I am merely a solitary bird

In love with the spotless lofty sky


I may praise it

And lament in its silence

But I can never caress it

Possess it or even

Comfort it


So it shall be

For even a storm of the sweetest dreams

Might taint the purity of a cloudless night
There are certain things
That are constant
At every truck stop:

The **** bottles,
never far from the trash cans
The diesel rivers,
perfuming the air like iridescent, poisoned flowers
The old men,
casting their eyes down as they walk
The idling engines,
singing lullabies to those in "sleeper"
The dog,
whining, waiting, or watching
The cat,
pretending not to care at all
The noisy reefers,
The bluetooth headsets,
The IFTA stickers,
The overpriced everything

And for me,
The hope that it will all go away
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