"sleepers" poems
Clock arms ***** upward
while the sleepers lie in their beds
thoroughly wet dreams
soak the ***** thoughts in their heads
Mothers obsessed with 7:00 am alarms
rush their ***** teenagers to designated stops
while a rising yolk shines bright
in eyes of sleepy pupils who wait for
a ******* on wheels
to shuttle them to institutions
addicted to #2 pencils
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
The sleeping eye
sees nothing aside
from the sleepers dream.
It may be shut
for fear to wake
only to face
an assembled fate.
May we never know
as sleeping eyes cannot speak
but rest assured,
these sleeping eyes do very well weep.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Yeah.
Awake past midnight
An insomniac in a world of sleepers,
Creeps with god-awful
Dreams
Where’re the dreamers?
I see
Empty minds & broken hearts
Carriers of virulent Dark
Our shadows
Gorging on the world
Our souls
Lost in Oz
Praying to a wizard
Who’s a known fraud.
Fracking a
Way to never-was
We who claim to know
Love
Prey
Hand to mouth / hand in glove
The bare-knuckle
Fist
Fights to exist
To matter then still better -yet…
Who in this hell knows?
This place is estranged
Yeah?
Can’t wait to see tomorrow
Now that I’m awake
I Just couldn’t wait…
All I want is
Peace on / for Earth - today!
Oh Gaia - namaste.
So yeah...?
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 5:19 AM UTC
"Night Owl"
We are the people of the night
we are the sleepers of the day
we are the night owls of the night
the all nighters
the most nighters
the day sleepers
the day layers
we are the people that don't
sleep at night
we are the people the
sleep the day away
school is just to early for us
it's not that we are lazy
it's just that point
that we are the night owls
the all nighters
we are the night owls
that catch the mice
not the bird
that catches the worm
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
Ripe Mourning, so Crisp and Crackling with Life Waking or Life preparing to sleep.
A shift change taking place at dawn, both sleepers and wakers will share a Yawn, for worlds of dream or worlds awake, it's like Consciousness balances itself in this way.
I see a Blue Herron standing on one leg near the pond, ducklings waddling in a line behind their Mom.
I see children running and playing on the jungle gym, how appropriately named. Training ground for the perils of the Jungle ahead, the Jungle of Life.
" Welcome to the Jungle"
Everything in Life is a Test
Every Choice Molds your Future Self
Prepare Yourself, Prepare Your Children, Train them on the Jungle Gym.
"Welcome to the Jungle"
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
They hate the shadow of the bird
over the high water of the white cheek
and the conflict of light and wind
in the salon of the cold snow.
They hate the bodiless arrow,
the precise handkerchief's farewell,
the needle that keeps the pressure and the rose
in the cereal blush of the smile.
They love the blue desert,
the swaying bovine expressions,
the lying moon of the poles,
the water's curved dance at the shore.
With the science of tree trunk and street market
they fill the clay with luminous nerves
and lewdly skate on waters and sands
tasting the bitter freshness of their millennial spit.
It's through the crackling blue,
blue without worm or a sleeping footprint,
where the ostrich eggs remain eternal
and the dancing rains wander untouched.
It's through the blue without history,
blue of a night without fear of day,
blue where the **** of the wind goes splitting
the sleepwalking camels of the empty clouds.
It's there where the torsos dream under the gluttony of grass.
There the corals soak the ink's despair,
the sleepers erase their profiles under the skein of snails
and the space of the dance remains over the final ashes.
7.5k
THERE is a wolf in me ... fangs pointed for tearing gashes ... a red tongue for raw meat ... and the hot lapping of blood-I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fox in me ... a silver-gray fox ... I sniff and guess ... I pick things out of the wind and air ... I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers ... I circle and loop and double-cross.
There is a hog in me ... a snout and a belly ... a machinery for eating and grunting ... a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun-I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.
There is a fish in me ... I know I came from saltblue water-gates ... I scurried with shoals of herring ... I blew waterspouts with porpoises ... before land was ... before the water went down ... before Noah ... before the first chapter of Genesis.
There is a baboon in me ... clambering-clawed ... dog-faced ... yawping a galoot's hunger ... hairy under the armpits ... here are the hawk-eyed hankering men ... here are the blond and blue-eyed women ... here they hide curled asleep waiting ... ready to snarl and **** ... ready to sing and give milk ... waiting-I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.
There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird ... and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want ... and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes-And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.
O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart-and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where-For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and **** and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.
7k
It's deep night, damp and sticky with the
residue of southern heat which refuses to
totally dissipate this far into the night.
The night is thick with the voices of insects
and sleepers sweating atop their sheets,
committing sins in their vivid imaginings.
Dreaming, I'm standing by the wide river
wishing I could fly with the breeze through
the trees, the soft, warm, cradling breeze
that comes up from the Mississippi River.
It stirs the boughs of cypress and oak trees
and arouses a wind chime's music somewhere
down the dimly-lit street, while scattering
a newspaper like huge leaves; a wind that smells
of magnolia and dogwood blossoms and
river mud. A full moon casts long shadows
which melt into even darker, yet benign
shadows. The night has compiled its secrets,
mysteries, transgressions; surely that is the
charm of night - it frees the mind to settle not
on what seemed important during the day,
but on the longings kept locked away, hidden
from the disclosing light, struggling to break
free and take wing with this night wind.
--
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and loneliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees, those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough falls to where the electric line banishes, connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 9:02 AM UTC
Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains.
The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads.
But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child
You shout, 'The swifts are back!'
Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther
Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields.
Swereee swereee. Another. And another.
It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs.
The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether.
These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers.
But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers
Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves.
Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for
Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them,
All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms,
They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains.
Here is a legend of swifts, a parable —
When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds,
The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things
Like shoes, with long legs and short wings,
So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk.
And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this,
'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky
On condition that you give up rest.'
'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest.
We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep,
Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms.
Let us be free, be air!'
So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies.
He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives.
He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet.
Then he released them, Never to Return
Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so
We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but
Bolts in the world's need: swift
Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply
Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing.
The grace to say they live in another firmament.
A way to say the miracle will not occur,
And watch the miracle.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
1
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
3
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
4.8k
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
I
Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.
In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,
Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,
She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,
Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.
II
I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate
The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,
Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.
III
Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names
Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.
Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.
4.5k
i love alliteration
like kings love living
like lions love killing
like love lost leaves aching
and wonder
wide wonder
where we were, when we were
we were
so...
alive.
awesome.
some sleep. others dream.
fetch fire from fire
blaze
blaze and black
opposites. awesome opposites.
still not us.
some sleep. some slip away.
slippery like fish.
i dont like fish very much.
live late. love long.
life
if it is life
lives
lest life linger, sub-par
sub-average
far more fitting.
(the former phrase, of course, following "fish"
sans "sub-" sentences)
some sleep, some dream.
others, oddly enough, bother both
both worlds, which while one works without what one would supply
(some sleepers dont dream)
dreamers, sometimes, seldom sleep.
rather, wrestle restlessly, fervently
futile fights
fighting fear, hate, hardship, hardly having strength to share their ideas.
folly.
does it seem, slightly
that they need both?
sleep and strength?
brains and brawn?
take teamwork, temporarily.
you and i...
we
we would win.
we wish,
we wonder,
we wander wherever.
we watch,
we would, whatever,
win.
because we live.
like lines long for letters
which would whittle words from whiteness
we would work with one another
and,
so,
we could rule the world.
would you rule with me?
please?
because i love alliteration
like lines and letters love leading listless eyes
lacking lids
courses carved across canvas
craving closure.
craving cause.
point.
place a period.
pause.
pax. peace.
pretty please?
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
His sea-sucked Adam in the hollow hulk,
Half of the fellow mother as she dabbles
To-morrow's diver in her ***** milk,
Bisected shadows on the thunder's bone
Bolt for the salt unborn.
The fellow half was frozen as it bubbled
Corrosive spring out of the iceberg's crop,
The fellow seed and shadow as it babbled
The swing of milk was tufted in the pap,
For half of love was planted in the lost,
And the unplanted ghost.
The broken halves are fellowed in a *******
The crutch that marrow taps upon their sleep,
Limp in the street of sea, among the rabble
Of tide-tongued heads and bladders in the deep,
And stake the sleepers in the savage grave
That the vampire laugh.
The patchwork halves were cloven as they scudded
The wild pigs' wood, and slime upon the trees,
******* the dark, kissed on the cyanide,
And loosed the braiding adders from their hairs,
Rotating halves are horning as they drill
The arterial angel.
What colour is glory? death's feather? tremble
The halves that pierce the pin's point in the air,
And ***** the thumb-stained heaven through the thimble.
The ghost is dumb that stammered in the straw,
The ghost that hatched his havoc as he flew
Blinds their cloud-tracking eye.
II
My world is pyramid. The padded mummer
Weeps on the desert ochre and the salt
Incising summer.
My Egypt's armour buckling in its sheet,
I scrape through resin to a starry bone
And a blood parhelion.
My world is cypress, and an English valley.
I piece my flesh that rattled on the yards
Red in an Austrian volley.
I hear, through dead men's drums, the riddled lads,
******** their bowels from a hill of bones,
Cry Eloi to the guns.
My grave is watered by the crossing Jordan.
The Arctic scut, and basin of the South,
Drip on my dead house garden.
Who seek me landward, marking in my mouth
The straws of Asia, lose me as I turn
Through the Atlantic corn.
The fellow halves that, cloven as they swivel
On casting tides, are tangled in the shells,
Bearding the unborn devil,
Bleed from my burning fork and smell my heels.
The tongue's of heaven gossip as I glide
Binding my angel's hood.
Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour?
I blow the stammel feather in the vein.
The **** is glory in a working pallor.
My clay unsuckled and my salt unborn,
The secret child, I sift about the sea
Dry in the half-tracked thigh.
3.9k
a big fight up in saturn causes cyclone activity in queensland and northern territory
you see ronnie biggs and ted bunny were having a quiet methane smoothie, in saturn
club rings, when they suddenly broke out in a fight, and this wasn’t just any fight, no, it caused
big cyclone activity in quuensland and northern territory and gold coast where my brother lives
has a bif of rough seas, and my dad is making sure that the cyclone doesn’t affect gold coast
and my brothers family, but ronnie biggs and ted bundy had no compassion, and really started
fighting with methane, which is causing the rough seas, and dad, is trying to keep the cyclone away
but, it looks like ted bunny and ronnie biggs are going to get their way, as they, poured methane all over
the saturn club rings, you see, what us cosmic sleepers must do, is alert australians living in these areas
to listen to authorities, and go to a safe place, for barry allan’s ploy to save this world, hopefully there won’t
be any casualties, and hopefully my brothers family will be safe, hopefully dad can save the gold coast
and keep his old family safe, it’ll be a hard job, you see ted bundy and ronnie biggs are still fighting, saying
let’s destroy the earth, let’s destroy australia first, let’s use methane to ruin the whole entire earth, you see
me as cronus is getting dad to help me keep the methane from forcing the cyclones to really **** people, and hopefully
nothing will be lost, but it will be ****** hard, because ted bunny and ronnie biggs are really ****** well ****** off
with everyone, as well as cronus, and knows how crocus’s current earth body is when storms come to cities his
brother or family lives in, decided to hopefully wreck cronus’s life, and his dad barry allan, is making sure he helps
cronus keep his younger son safe from this really fierce cyclone, i know i am going on and on saying the same thing
over and over, but this is a way, to bring all cyclone activity not to take too much control on queensland and northern territory
you see, ted bundy likes the idea of using methane to destroy the earth, to get crocus’s earth body, to SHUT UP, cause
you should listen to your voices when they said methane is a gas, and you can’t drink it, but you can fight it, and the methane
stopped dad from being a boy, but he says girls and boys are equal, and barry allan is fighting ted bundy and ronnie biggs
from having this cyclone get close to my brothers family, but ted bundy liked the idea of hurting the gold coast, and cause
problems for my brother, and barry allan and cronus are protecting the gold coast from a very fierce cyclone activity
and cronus and buddha YELLED OUT
UMMMMMMMMMM STOP ted bundy and ronnie biggs from taking too much affect in cyclones in qld and northern territory
immmmmmmmmmm keep our family safe from this methane cyclone caused by ted bundy and ronnie biggs
ummmmmmmmmmm stop people swimming in dangerous waters, they will be doing what ted and ronnie want
you see, ronnie biggs and ted bundy are fighting each other, and dad and cronus who is me, are guarding anyone who is on the earth
making people too scared to not go in the water, ted bundy is enjoying people going in the water and so is ronnie biggs
because it makes what they are doing so very much right, and i tell ya i tell ya i tell ya, my father, is helping my previous life cronus
ME AND DAD MUST SAVE THE QUEENSLAND AND NORTHERN TERRITORY COASTLINE
ME AND DAD MUST SAVE THE QUEENSLAND AND NORTHERN TERRITORY COASTLINE
save it from the dreaded ronnie biggs and ted bundy, RIGHT NOW
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
Easter party on Saturn
Hi dudes, Briano Alliano at the Saturn club rings and today we have
A few Easter numbers for the cosmic
Sleepers and dead from earth
The first song is Easter is a festival for all
You see we have clowns and bunnies and chickens and
A big Easter egg to crack
You see as we crack it
The chocolate goes everywhere
And the smarties come right out
Saying party over Easter
Party over Easter it's ever do fun
To party over Easter
The Easter bunny, is coming a running over to the Easter party now
So you dudes up here can share Easter till the kind folk find a way
To contact you, so we can party all night
And now here is our next Easter song
Ok it's Easter and you know it celebrate
It's Easter and you know it celebrate
You see Easter is a time to celebrate
With hot cross buns and eggs with colour
It's Easter and you know it
Celebrate
You see it's Easter and you know it
We'll party on
It's Easter and you know it
We'll party on
You see the fabulous Easter bunny , man
Brings the Easter eggs to celebrate
With his clan
It's Easter and you know it
We 'll party on
And now, dudes here is our next song called here comes Peter cottontail
Here comes Peter cottontail
Running down the bunny trail
Picking up the eggs from everywhere
You see he has a powder puff tail
And he enjoys eating snails
From the garden of the queen of hearts every single day
Here comes Peter cotton tail
Up and down the bunny trail
Yeah this is the best Easter that we ever had
Hopping down the Easter trail dropping eggs in each basket oh yeah
Peter Peter little baby Peter
Mighty Peter cottontail skips
Down the trail saying happy Easter
Happy Easter.to us all
And now here is our next Easter song Easter is living living is loving
And a loving family sharing a meal
Celebration a time to party With coloured eggs and chocolate bunnies and a hot cross bin to share
Over a cup of coffee or a dessert for a lovely meal down the club with people you know and love
And then we celebrate a day
For the families who had a rabbit in their house last night or the day
Jesus rose from the dead
Out of his bed, it felt like more of a sleep than death but the bible stayed it as death but Jesus reincarnated on Easter into a few of the farms animals and some people at the dinner table agree with that and some don't agree and it starts an
Easter religion feud ending with
A big happy Easter happy Easter
Happy Easter. And a happy Easter
To all and to all a great night
Then grandmother tells out to the kiddies I think I saw the Easter bunny leave out house this morning
And then asked did he leave you kids anything and then suddenly the
Dinner table had Easter eggs all over it but noone cared for it was Easter dudes happy happy happy hsppy Easter a time to celebrate
And it is a happy Easter from me as well
Happy Easter
And my encore is Easter eggs are tasty
You see we go to the shopping centre and we celebrate oh yeah
The Easter party is for young and old
Yeah this sounds so rad
The eggs are coloured in yellow and blue oh yeah oh yeah
The Easter eggs are tasty
Sent from my iPhone
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:31 AM UTC
I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains
of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air
go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men
and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall
pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he
answers: "Omaha."
3.4k
Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.
A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.
A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.
Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'
3.5k
It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.
3.4k
PEA pods cling to stems.
Neponset, the village,
Clings to the Burlington railway main line.
Terrible midnight limiteds roar through
Hauling sleepers to the Rockies and Sierras.
The earth is slightly shaken
And Neponset trembles slightly in its sleep.
3.3k
Sequestration by other means
A railway line its salient claim,
running sleepers into the distance.
Steady reminders -
a segment of canal
whose older self
ultimately gave birth to snaking hamlets, now mature.
A verdant nature trail coursing the disinterred bank side,
a feeder reservoir now yachting waters
shaping the geography.
shaping the geography.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.
We have lost track of it.
They lie as if under water
In a blue, unchanging light,
The French window ajar
Curtained with yellow lace.
Through the narrow crack
Odors of wet earth rise.
The snail leaves a silver track;
Dark thickets hedge the house.
We take a backward look.
Among petals pale as death
And leaves steadfast in shape
They sleep on, mouth to mouth.
A white mist is going up.
The small green nostrils breathe,
And they turn in their sleep.
Ousted from that warm bed
We are a dream they dream.
Their eyelids keep up the shade.
No harm can come to them.
We cast our skins and slide
Into another time.
3k