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Hank Van Well Jr Oct 2014
While the raven sleeps

Feasting , in a climate doused in affection
Relying in the promise of a new tomorrow

While the raven sleeps

The sun parades across the sky
And I , am not just a seat at your table,
We welcome seats at " ours "

While the raven sleeps

We dine on the appetizers sprinkled in hope
The scent of the roses , the fresh lawn in the breeze
The little things normally overlooked in our surroundings

While the raven sleeps

The butterflies sleeping on my insides Dance ,
At the mere anticipation of her presence

While the raven sleeps

The dose of reality bathed in the now
intertwined with the walls of his nest
Hiding the lurking shadows of chaos that come to life the moment he wakes

While the raven sleeps

The morning star grows heavy
The skies start to dim
The moon peeks over the horizon
Bringing with it the realness of a hardened heart

The raven sleeps no more ......
Nicole May 2014
She sleeps soundlessly.
Surrounded by fluttering pages,
exhausted from living
countless lives
as she sat alone
unmoving.
Allyson Walsh Sep 2015
Hands limp and bodies warm
Legs intertwined

She sleeps on my side

Dark blue sheets losing my scent
Illuminated by moonlight

She sleeps on my side

Heavy breathing
And arms wrapped tight

She sleeps on my side

His deep voice and lazy bones
Tired eyes

She sleeps on my side

Your intentions confirmed
Our love denied

She sleeps on my side
For WY and CC

"I'm watching you sleep all night with a stranger on my side."

Watching You - Natalia Kills
How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series
Of burnt circles which have formed
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
With all the fur of time,
With a tongue rough as flint,
With the dry *** of fire and
After speaking to no one,
Stretch myself over the world,
Over roofs and landscapes,
With a passionate desire
To hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
Would undulate, how the night flowed
Through it like dark water and at times,
It was going to fall or possibly
Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.

Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
Like a tiger's great-grandfather,
And would leap in the darkness over
Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night with
Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams
Control the obscurity
Of our slumbering prowess
With your relentless HEART
And the great ruff of your tail.
She eats, she sleeps; my cat does nothing more;
her naps can last until the day is done;
her habits make her really quite a bore;
in storms she sleeps; she sleeps in beams of sun.
She wakes to stretch, her mouth a gaping yawn;
she stands, and turns, and lays back down asleep;
at night, she sleeps from dusk into the dawn;
she dozes well, adept at counting sheep.
Her fur, it gleams, no doubt from beauty rest;
perhaps she knows more than she seems to know;
I wake; upon my head sits a rat’s nest;
my beauty slumber never seems to show.
And though my cat is lazy all the time,
I can’t see her as anyone’s but mine.
DieingEmbers Nov 2012
Laid here counting roof tiles...

two at a time

my eyes heavy
but my lids in denial
of sleep

she whispers in my ear

are you awake
then adds
good
with a grin

WHY NOT abandon one basic need
for another
why not rest
upon anothers flesh
soft and warm
scented with the promise
of dreams
insomnia so cruely denies

Pillow pressed beneath her back
giving support
so sorely needed
amid the punctuated night time prayers

God called upon in blasphemous tongues
praised and cussed
in unison of mouths wet and open

Sheets that offer no warmth soon cast off
replaced by heat of breath
and perspiration sweet and salty
to the lips
kissing
nibbling
biting
nails find no fault inscribing thank yous
in reddened ink

Falling back exhausted yet wide awake
as by my side
cuddled in she sleeps
smiling

and I close my eyes and think myself blessed
for every night the first
for we two
have yet to sleep
together.
It is full summer now, the heart of June;
Not yet the sunburnt reapers are astir
Upon the upland meadow where too soon
Rich autumn time, the season’s usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see his treasure scattered by the wild and spendthrift breeze.

Too soon indeed! yet here the daffodil,
That love-child of the Spring, has lingered on
To vex the rose with jealousy, and still
The harebell spreads her azure pavilion,
And like a strayed and wandering reveller
Abandoned of its brothers, whom long since June’s messenger

The missel-thrush has frighted from the glade,
One pale narcissus loiters fearfully
Close to a shadowy nook, where half afraid
Of their own loveliness some violets lie
That will not look the gold sun in the face
For fear of too much splendour,—ah! methinks it is a place

Which should be trodden by Persephone
When wearied of the flowerless fields of Dis!
Or danced on by the lads of Arcady!
The hidden secret of eternal bliss
Known to the Grecian here a man might find,
Ah! you and I may find it now if Love and Sleep be kind.

There are the flowers which mourning Herakles
Strewed on the tomb of Hylas, columbine,
Its white doves all a-flutter where the breeze
Kissed them too harshly, the small celandine,
That yellow-kirtled chorister of eve,
And lilac lady’s-smock,—but let them bloom alone, and leave

Yon spired hollyhock red-crocketed
To sway its silent chimes, else must the bee,
Its little bellringer, go seek instead
Some other pleasaunce; the anemone
That weeps at daybreak, like a silly girl
Before her love, and hardly lets the butterflies unfurl

Their painted wings beside it,—bid it pine
In pale virginity; the winter snow
Will suit it better than those lips of thine
Whose fires would but scorch it, rather go
And pluck that amorous flower which blooms alone,
Fed by the pander wind with dust of kisses not its own.

The trumpet-mouths of red convolvulus
So dear to maidens, creamy meadow-sweet
Whiter than Juno’s throat and odorous
As all Arabia, hyacinths the feet
Of Huntress Dian would be loth to mar
For any dappled fawn,—pluck these, and those fond flowers which
are

Fairer than what Queen Venus trod upon
Beneath the pines of Ida, eucharis,
That morning star which does not dread the sun,
And budding marjoram which but to kiss
Would sweeten Cytheraea’s lips and make
Adonis jealous,—these for thy head,—and for thy girdle take

Yon curving spray of purple clematis
Whose gorgeous dye outflames the Tyrian King,
And foxgloves with their nodding chalices,
But that one narciss which the startled Spring
Let from her kirtle fall when first she heard
In her own woods the wild tempestuous song of summer’s bird,

Ah! leave it for a subtle memory
Of those sweet tremulous days of rain and sun,
When April laughed between her tears to see
The early primrose with shy footsteps run
From the gnarled oak-tree roots till all the wold,
Spite of its brown and trampled leaves, grew bright with shimmering
gold.

Nay, pluck it too, it is not half so sweet
As thou thyself, my soul’s idolatry!
And when thou art a-wearied at thy feet
Shall oxlips weave their brightest tapestry,
For thee the woodbine shall forget its pride
And veil its tangled whorls, and thou shalt walk on daisies pied.

And I will cut a reed by yonder spring
And make the wood-gods jealous, and old Pan
Wonder what young intruder dares to sing
In these still haunts, where never foot of man
Should tread at evening, lest he chance to spy
The marble limbs of Artemis and all her company.

And I will tell thee why the jacinth wears
Such dread embroidery of dolorous moan,
And why the hapless nightingale forbears
To sing her song at noon, but weeps alone
When the fleet swallow sleeps, and rich men feast,
And why the laurel trembles when she sees the lightening east.

And I will sing how sad Proserpina
Unto a grave and gloomy Lord was wed,
And lure the silver-breasted Helena
Back from the lotus meadows of the dead,
So shalt thou see that awful loveliness
For which two mighty Hosts met fearfully in war’s abyss!

And then I’ll pipe to thee that Grecian tale
How Cynthia loves the lad Endymion,
And hidden in a grey and misty veil
Hies to the cliffs of Latmos once the Sun
Leaps from his ocean bed in fruitless chase
Of those pale flying feet which fade away in his embrace.

And if my flute can breathe sweet melody,
We may behold Her face who long ago
Dwelt among men by the AEgean sea,
And whose sad house with pillaged portico
And friezeless wall and columns toppled down
Looms o’er the ruins of that fair and violet cinctured town.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry still awhile,
They are not dead, thine ancient votaries;
Some few there are to whom thy radiant smile
Is better than a thousand victories,
Though all the nobly slain of Waterloo
Rise up in wrath against them! tarry still, there are a few

Who for thy sake would give their manlihood
And consecrate their being; I at least
Have done so, made thy lips my daily food,
And in thy temples found a goodlier feast
Than this starved age can give me, spite of all
Its new-found creeds so sceptical and so dogmatical.

Here not Cephissos, not Ilissos flows,
The woods of white Colonos are not here,
On our bleak hills the olive never blows,
No simple priest conducts his lowing steer
Up the steep marble way, nor through the town
Do laughing maidens bear to thee the crocus-flowered gown.

Yet tarry! for the boy who loved thee best,
Whose very name should be a memory
To make thee linger, sleeps in silent rest
Beneath the Roman walls, and melody
Still mourns her sweetest lyre; none can play
The lute of Adonais:  with his lips Song passed away.

Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left
One silver voice to sing his threnody,
But ah! too soon of it we were bereft
When on that riven night and stormy sea
Panthea claimed her singer as her own,
And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk
alone,

Save for that fiery heart, that morning star
Of re-arisen England, whose clear eye
Saw from our tottering throne and waste of war
The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy
Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring
The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,

And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,
And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot
In passionless and fierce virginity
Hunting the tusked boar, his honied lute
Hath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill,
And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.

And he hath kissed the lips of Proserpine,
And sung the Galilaean’s requiem,
That wounded forehead dashed with blood and wine
He hath discrowned, the Ancient Gods in him
Have found their last, most ardent worshipper,
And the new Sign grows grey and dim before its conqueror.

Spirit of Beauty! tarry with us still,
It is not quenched the torch of poesy,
The star that shook above the Eastern hill
Holds unassailed its argent armoury
From all the gathering gloom and fretful fight—
O tarry with us still! for through the long and common night,

Morris, our sweet and simple Chaucer’s child,
Dear heritor of Spenser’s tuneful reed,
With soft and sylvan pipe has oft beguiled
The weary soul of man in troublous need,
And from the far and flowerless fields of ice
Has brought fair flowers to make an earthly paradise.

We know them all, Gudrun the strong men’s bride,
Aslaug and Olafson we know them all,
How giant Grettir fought and Sigurd died,
And what enchantment held the king in thrall
When lonely Brynhild wrestled with the powers
That war against all passion, ah! how oft through summer hours,

Long listless summer hours when the noon
Being enamoured of a damask rose
Forgets to journey westward, till the moon
The pale usurper of its tribute grows
From a thin sickle to a silver shield
And chides its loitering car—how oft, in some cool grassy field

Far from the cricket-ground and noisy eight,
At Bagley, where the rustling bluebells come
Almost before the blackbird finds a mate
And overstay the swallow, and the hum
Of many murmuring bees flits through the leaves,
Have I lain poring on the dreamy tales his fancy weaves,

And through their unreal woes and mimic pain
Wept for myself, and so was purified,
And in their simple mirth grew glad again;
For as I sailed upon that pictured tide
The strength and splendour of the storm was mine
Without the storm’s red ruin, for the singer is divine;

The little laugh of water falling down
Is not so musical, the clammy gold
Close hoarded in the tiny waxen town
Has less of sweetness in it, and the old
Half-withered reeds that waved in Arcady
Touched by his lips break forth again to fresher harmony.

Spirit of Beauty, tarry yet awhile!
Although the cheating merchants of the mart
With iron roads profane our lovely isle,
And break on whirling wheels the limbs of Art,
Ay! though the crowded factories beget
The blindworm Ignorance that slays the soul, O tarry yet!

For One at least there is,—He bears his name
From Dante and the seraph Gabriel,—
Whose double laurels burn with deathless flame
To light thine altar; He too loves thee well,
Who saw old Merlin lured in Vivien’s snare,
And the white feet of angels coming down the golden stair,

Loves thee so well, that all the World for him
A gorgeous-coloured vestiture must wear,
And Sorrow take a purple diadem,
Or else be no more Sorrow, and Despair
Gild its own thorns, and Pain, like Adon, be
Even in anguish beautiful;—such is the empery

Which Painters hold, and such the heritage
This gentle solemn Spirit doth possess,
Being a better mirror of his age
In all his pity, love, and weariness,
Than those who can but copy common things,
And leave the Soul unpainted with its mighty questionings.

But they are few, and all romance has flown,
And men can prophesy about the sun,
And lecture on his arrows—how, alone,
Through a waste void the soulless atoms run,
How from each tree its weeping nymph has fled,
And that no more ’mid English reeds a Naiad shows her head.

Methinks these new Actaeons boast too soon
That they have spied on beauty; what if we
Have analysed the rainbow, robbed the moon
Of her most ancient, chastest mystery,
Shall I, the last Endymion, lose all hope
Because rude eyes peer at my mistress through a telescope!

What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles!  Can it assuage
One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
Hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgment; let them, if they can,
From Natural Warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!
Methinks that was not my inheritance;
For I was nurtured otherwise, my soul
Passes from higher heights of life to a more supreme goal.

Lo! while we spake the earth did turn away
Her visage from the God, and Hecate’s boat
Rose silver-laden, till the jealous day
Blew all its torches out:  I did not note
The waning hours, to young Endymions
Time’s palsied fingers count in vain his rosary of suns!

Mark how the yellow iris wearily
Leans back its throat, as though it would be kissed
By its false chamberer, the dragon-fly,
Who, like a blue vein on a girl’s white wrist,
Sleeps on that snowy primrose of the night,
Which ‘gins to flush with crimson shame, and die beneath the light.

Come let us go, against the pallid shield
Of the wan sky the almond blossoms gleam,
The corncrake nested in the unmown field
Answers its mate, across the misty stream
On fitful wing the startled curlews fly,
And in his sedgy bed the lark, for joy that Day is nigh,

Scatters the pearled dew from off the grass,
In tremulous ecstasy to greet the sun,
Who soon in gilded panoply will pass
Forth from yon orange-curtained pavilion
Hung in the burning east:  see, the red rim
O’ertops the expectant hills! it is the God! for love of him

Already the shrill lark is out of sight,
Flooding with waves of song this silent dell,—
Ah! there is something more in that bird’s flight
Than could be tested in a crucible!—
But the air freshens, let us go, why soon
The woodmen will be here; how we have lived this night of June!
1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i
Timothy Clarke Dec 2010
Her body sleeps beside me
The gentle nape of her neck
The graceful turn of her ear
The beauty of her eye lids.

Her body sleeps beside me
Moon-lit Ansel Adams landscapes
Gently rolling hills and valleys
Covered with comforters.

Her body sleeps beside me
And as she lightly breathes
Her perfume breath fills my lungs
And invites me to leave my body also.

As I hold her naked form in mine
The cold stays away for one more night
And my heart fills with the deepest of content
We no longer dream of what might have been.
Ceyhun Mahi Aug 2016
The clouds slowly conceal sunlight at night,
Who then slowly reveal moonlight at night.

In this city roams the Moon of New-York,
Who's face reflects the city's light at night.

All kinds of people walk around up here,
In lit streets who're full with delight at night.

When this city is seen, it looks like an
Huge ocean of lights by eyesight at night.

Every time I look at this adorned place,
I fail to forget that bright sight at night.

At sunset this city becomes one square,
A place where people can unite at night.

From miles away you can see this city's
Presence and signs by it's skylight at night.

Every second someone gets Pleasure's kiss,
While another feels Despair's bite at night.

In here roam hedonistic people,
And people who are strict and tight at night.

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.


The breeze of the summer stays at night,
Witnesses the turning to days at night.

I can't fail to remember this city,
Since I've seen that luminous face at night.

Because of the countless sighs of lovers,
You can feel in the air Love's haze at night.

The city's melody is determined,
By what each individual plays at night.

The strangest of all and mundane of all;
Each one has occurred in this place at night.

The rich, the poor, the mad, women and men
All walk along light-adorned ways at night.

The lights reach every soul in this city,
Coming from hotels and cafes at night.

Wherever that Moon goes, it leaves it's mark,
At each place you'll find that Moon's trace at night.

It takes miles for pilgrims from far away,
To enter this place trough highways at night.

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.


The neon lights cover the street at night,
Who are set in places who fleet at night.

Traces of drama, tragedy and more,
Is felt in every hotel suite at night.

The homeless and party-goers here,
Both walk on tired and sore feet at night.

Meals on wheels at sight at every corner,
To serve people who want to eat at night.

Both the old and youth are called to places,
With pleasures who are bittersweet at night.

Streets who reflect neon lights in puddles,
Are places for lovers to meet at night.

So many people walk along themselves,
Yet there's no time to greet at night.

This awake city who is always breathing,
Always blows to me a conceit at night.

I can't seem to stop to describe this place!
About this jungle of concrete at night!

In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.


This place witnesses misery at night,
And also witnesses beauty at night.

Millions of fishes are swimming around,
Trough streets in this luminous sea at night.

The gates stay open without any rest,
All people come and go freely at night.

Trough happiness and even ill horror,
This places stays silent and steady at night.

Those who're in love in this city see with
Little eyes, who perceive blurry at night.

Lovers are tangled up in each other,
While raindrops fall in an alley at night.

No one is an exception in this place,
Darkness veils your ethnicity at night.

Many have acquired shine up here,
And lost, in that shining city at night.

Ideas are hoisted out of my well!
Gihon will end his poetry, at night.

*In this city who never sleeps at night,
I hear singing in highs and deeps at night.
Poetic Form: Terkib-i Bent; several ghazals woven into each other but with a different rhyme for each stanza. Each ghazal is closed with a couplet who always comes back so that a next stanza can come in with a different rhyme.
David Nelson May 2013
While My Guitar Gently Sleeps

boogie woogie is on my mind
my toe tapping a thousand times
slapping snare and top hat crash
back to sleep dreamy night fade away

is it a festival of jazz marching by
raz-ma-taz New Orleans style
clarinet and trumpet and tuba blow
blind melon singing do-dah do-dah-day

Latin fever makes me thrash
trying to remember the tricky steps
the cha-cha of the island girls
watching how the shapely hips sway

Spanish marimba mambo twist
taps clacking as the flamenco flies
big box acoustic cat gut strings
fingers twitching wanting to play

square dance cowgirls and dudes strut
thumbs in their pockets stomping boots
fiddles and steel race through my heart
gonna do it all do it all someday

roll over and change the world another day
dreamy night fade away once again
screaming guitars in triple tones
while my guitar gently sleeps away

Gomer LePoet...
no rest for the weary frustrated musician :)
john oconnell Aug 2010
The village sleeps
when I retire.

The village sleeps
when I arise.

One man's land
counting grains of sand

while travelling towards eternity.
esridersi Aug 2018
Beauty wears a short, black dress of olive silk skin.

    She lies poised on the couch, drained of her special sleep.

    Yet still, light pours His fingers down her figure, sleek and thin.

    The face of her dress smiles behind the glasses guarding her deep brown eyes.

    Beauty chose the slender sweet slits for her lips.
    They match the dips her hips outline on her gown.

    Her legs sit dainty off the side, but her flushed-red scarf wraps her cheeks,
And hides quietly in the back.

    She sleeps soundly dressed true black, with her small eyes cracked.
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Andrea Zapiain Oct 2014
Soft, hush, a body stirs
a scene eerily undisturbed
and yet an arm, white as foam
draped over the girl who sleeps alone

she wakes
her heart beats at the touch
confusion gives way, soft, hush
disturbed, afraid
cold seeps through her feet
marble, not a dream
she watches herself
soft, hush, a body stirs
dreading the day, buried in pillows
red hair, red hair
same smile, same eyes

the other makes a cup of coffee
two sugars, drip of milk
routine smells of butter
and strawberry jam

the other can't see, so she only watches
the girl who sleeps alone
now an observer, undisturbed
a ghost in the sidelines
as routine takes the other by the hand
dresses her up, paints her lips
high heels, high heels
red, black, pale and nothingness
words left unsaid
the girls who sleeps alone remains
undisturbed, messy hair, no dress, no heels

both, disturbed and undisturbed
to the marble palace
where the living honor the dead
Mark, she thinks, the girl who sleeps alone

Oliver, poor Oliver
found his mentor resembling his paintings
red, red against black
black eating away the red
and yet... red, dripping from his wrists
red, splattered on the floor
Rothko, no more paintings
Mark, no more red

the other is gone
no, it can't be
the other existed, or perhaps it was 1970
and Rothko never slit his wrists
and perhaps... and perhaps
Oliver, poor Oliver
looking at the girl who sleeps alone
and there she is, very real
splendor, messy hair
no black dress, no black heels
Rothko was right about fear
and one day the black will swallow the red
not a trace of it on her lips
based on a short story I wrote and the life and death of Mark Rothko.
Nishu Mathur Aug 2016
Rise softly, rise gently, waking dawn
And let the drowsy sun yawn a while
Beside me, my love sleeps in peaceful bliss
With crescent eyes and a crescent smile
The morning breeze may tease the blooms
That wait to unfold with the sun's blush
- But softly, blow gently, oh morning breeze
Let the wind chimes be still, quiet, hushed

Rest your melodies, singing birds and bees
And cease the fluttering of your wings
The hum, the drone, the medleys
Quiet the rustling and the whispering
Why gurgle so loud - river- change your course
Flow far away, past the mangroves
For how lustily you gush, bubbles and froth
Shhshh...love sleeps - eyes closed

But alas - the river stays, making its music
The birds from their songs shall never cease
And the morning breeze breathes free
Tinkling wind chimes, hustling leaves
Rise - the sun shall and burst in gold
And the world'll be in daylight's warm embrace
My love will waken yet I still revel -
For sun lights the grace of my love's face
alice Jun 2014
While he sleeps

I scrape the inside of my glass tube

for the last bits of ******.

There's not much of anything

there

worth smoking

but I keep scraping away

anyways.

While he sleeps

I think of hotel elevators

and remember my last ******.

There's not much of anything

here

worth saving

but I keep holding on

anyways.
Written in early 2007.
Softly Spoken Mar 2017
My daughter sleeps to the sound of the ocean
softly, gently rocked
forth and afar into dreams and nightmares
a soft static blanket
the assonance of water

My daughter sleeps
to the sound of an ocean that she has never heard
a loop of imagined waves that have
never wet her feet
she has never run screaming and laughing
from the imagined horrors of seaweed, foam
Tangaroa’s arms enfolding her

As my daughter sleeps, I cry
as salty as the swells she’s never seen
in this landlocked room
slowly falling from my cheek
to land on hers
a soft saline baptism

As my daughter sleeps, my thoughts fly
wondering how I can fill her
with the awe that something as elemental
something as capricious
something as beautiful
can exist in this tattered world

but still, my daughter sleeps
I grew up on and in the Pacific. It's wild and elemental, and I miss it dreadfully.. now my daughter sleeps to a loop of the sound of the ocean and it struck me as ironic that she dreams to something she has experienced.
bones Jan 2016
She opens a window
and hopes for the sky
to fall in from outside
and it's tailwind bring

her the moon and the clouds
lined with silver, a crowd
of the finest of stars
and a spare pair of wings..
Chloe M Teng Apr 2015
I see a dying swan
Resting on the marshes of the bank
Her feathers white as snow
Her wings like that of a silk

I hear a dying swan
whispering softly to the river
While she rests and sleeps
the river answers back with a song

A song of life and death
Graping onto her graceful neck
breath took her away
And now she sleeps and never comes back

I know a dying swan
she's like a mother
and the river a home
though her eyes told me no story anymore
I still believe her, that dying swan
"How do you feel when a person you love the most gets taken away unexpectedly?"
Bee Dec 2017
Pathetic parasite
of a woman
perpetuates
love indefinitely,
a plague
upon hopelessly
romantic people.
A performance.
Smiling, always.
Hates
good news and
sleeps around,
sleeps
surrounded
in black light.
Wearing sunglasses.
Her day is
nighttime.
She breathes
aesthetic,
instagram posts
to survive.
But thrives, only.
The numb gummed
princess cries
every day and
yes. She said it,
even
a hundred times
but
language
proves flexible.
Same words mean
different things
and we
obviously don’t
speak the same
language.
I meant mine.
I didn’t know
she’d sell hers
for snow.
Fame.
Attention from strangers.

Welcome home.

Winter came and stayed,
love never lived here.
Eileen Black Dec 2018
When the Sun Sleeps (Rondeau)

When the sun sleeps, I close my eyes.
Yet little to my surprise,
my body will not rest, it seems.
And my mind refuses to dream,
no matter how hard I try.

As the moon continues to rise,
bright stars smile down from the skies,
twinkling with a happy gleam,
when the sun sleeps.

Every night, I am mesmerized
when every star does harmonize
to a singular song per diem.
Captivated by every beam,
every star I memorize,
when the sun sleeps.
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the ***** of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my ***** and be lost in me.
Sid Oct 2014
He sleeps so soundly,
resting after we make love.
I watch him, smiling.
Terry Collett Feb 2015
Sonya sleeps
I watch her
laying there

beside her
the moonlight
highlights her

pale features
we'd made love
more than once

now she sleeps
solo dreams
I'm awake

watching her
wondering
whom she loved

before me
she doesn't
speak of one

in her past
maybe I'm
the first one

whose made love
to this dame
maybe not

just unknown
just out there
another

in his arms
but I'm here
watching her

as she sleeps
the hot ***
simmering

on my skin
as she dreams
her hot ***

deep within.
A MAN AND WOMAN AND LOVE IN 1973.
Aerinlia Nov 2017
There is a young girl
Sleeping peacefully
After a very long day
A day that drained her life force

Two hours passed
The girl still sleeps peacefully
With a little snoring
And innocent face

Five hours passed
The girl still sleeps peacefully
With a little snoring
And innocent face

Ten hours passed
The girl still sleeps peacefully
With a little snoring
And innocent face

Twenty hours passed
The girl still sleeps peacefully
With a little snoring
And innocent face

A day has passed
The girl still sleeps peacefully
But there is no snoring anymore
Because she has found the real peace.
Pages Jan 2018
Beneath the blues and the seeming madness...
She had buried her sadness...
Her soul sleeps  at night to gather the colours from the dark absorbed by dark of nights....
Deleting sad thoughts , refreshing and creating space for new memories....
Thoughts and aspirations passing through new cosmic roads...
Unlocking greatest mysteries of interstellar.....
Moonlights and stars guiding her path, walking all alone, a little star with glimmering light....
And here on earth...
She is like rainbow....
Hidden in skies...
Needs a little support of the rain and light...
Conversing with mind, to the divine, having  Heart so kind....
She sleeps with passion....
And devotion in her eyes...
Fireflies singing her lullaby...
And her soul sleeps...
Sleeps and sleeps to be more Bright......
Sleeping to wake up..
In morning, with a new life!!!
Have a sound sleep :)
four sleeps
four more sleeps
and then that day arrives
the day
if you are not careful
that reminds you
of all you are not

you are not a mother
nor a sister
nor an aunt
you do not have family
you can go and visit

when you wake
on that day
there is no laughter echoing
nor  paper ripping
as presents are opened
before the kettle has boiled

instead
your house
echoes with emptiness
you will eat your turkey and trimmings alone
no debate about who sits where at the table
nor fights for supremacy of the remote control

please

do not be sad for me

reframe your matrix
the way I do

my heart beats with the gift of life
my memory is filled
with the richness of days gone by
and each moment I breathe
the only moment any of us has
is filled with belief and shaped by joy

I am not a mother
nor a sister
nor an aunt
I do not have family
I can go and visit
I will eat alone on Christmas Day

but what I am is me

and for that I am blessed
as you are for being you
© Jacqueline Le Sueur 2011 All Rights Reserved
this city never sleeps
this city never cries
secret's that it keeps
beyond smoggy skies

car alarms
gun shots
people screaming
parking lots

this city doesn't feel
this city's not afraid
these scars never heal
these sounds never fade

jackhammer
news stand
police sirens
news van

this city never sleeps
this city never cries
you can hear it on streets
you can see it in their eyes
My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.
grumpy thumb Sep 2018
She sleeps
I'm outside under the eaves sheltering little from the rain
smoking late into the a.m. wide awake,
coffee for company and her scent
clinging to my skin.
There's isolated bouts of traffic  
late night revellers
returning
shadows
there to witness between
lamplight neons,
but I'm cocooned away
restless in the washes of rain
thinking of one in slumber within
the walls on which I lean
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is
dawn
into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems

on earth a candle is
extinguished     the city
wakes
with a song upon her
mouth having death in her eyes

and it is dawn
the world
goes forth to ****** dreams….

i see in the street where strong
men are digging bread
and i see the brutal faces of
people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy

and it is day,

in the mirror
i see a frail
man
dreaming
dreams
dreams in the mirror

and it
is dusk    on earth

a candle is lighted
and it is dark.
the people are in their houses
the frail man is in his bed
the city

sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes
the hours descend,
putting on stars….

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
r Sep 2016
Morning will be here
soon enough says the moon,

only the night knows the truth
that lies dark in your heart

where love sleeps forever,
deep, and never dreaming.
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)

was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation

living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to
perspective

we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children

a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands

miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment

stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps

then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:


”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”

bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:

“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”

”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”

write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles

”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet

violent #storm violentstorn
Waleed Khalidi Dec 2014
Did you see the bliss
Shoot across the night sky?
Here then there so quickly
Like a blink could project its moment
Yet when crumbling
Into the quake of memory
It is the window's remaining rain
Trickling down so slowly after the storm
Until all that is left is its drying trail
Clear to see the tired clouds sink behind
A heart so weathered
Never truly sleeps. Never rests
The hallow beats manifest
Into the crippling visions of the night
Blanketed by such distress
Until the rising light does nothing
But awaken the regrets that were left on the nightstand
Like a book with one chapter
No where left to turn
Do you see the ache
Shining dim in the night sky?
Like a footprint in the moon's dust
As alone as one could ever walk
Do you see the shame?
Like forty dying stars
Their fiery, blazing eyes
Watching every paranoid jitter
Äŧül May 2015
Oh how calmly she sleeps,
Carefree she always seems,
Wish she gets sweet dreams.
So glorious is her face always,
I wish her all the happiness,
All in the hue of brightness,
None equals her cuteness.

Oh hope never she weeps,
Clarity she wears in deeps,
With time get the -ve wiped,
Such the cutest nature heaps,
I'll be her guardian forever,
At heart Atul is just a loner,
Not just now - but forever.

Only by respecting my love for her,
A clear old identity is rediscovered,
I'm known as Atul Kaushal for a cause,
Singing hymns to my magical love,
Ignoring all those distractions,
And I am happy being with her,
Nirvana comes just for us.
My HP Poem #870
©Atul Kaushal
Terry Collett May 2016
She sleeps.

There is exhaustion.

Exhaustion of mind,
of body.

L'épuisement
de l'esprit.

Too tired to undress,
she sleeps in the clothes
he wore the night before.

Smell of apples,
fresh picked after rain.

Scent of her God given,
day worn.

Wonder if she dreams of me
or another
or of castle towers,
and knight rescues
after dragon slaying.

Maybe we made love
or else did other.

Contented sleep
looks like,
that well indulged
featured look
while sleeping
in some god's keeping.

Sommeil réparateur.

Bird song outside,
dawn chorus,
traffic far off.

Her hands
which once touched mine,
rest in their sleep.

Her lips just open,
once mine to kiss,
await kisses
in her dreams.

I lay and watch
dawn's light play
upon the ceiling.

I lay awake with that
marooned on a desert island
depressing feeling.
A MAN WATCHING HIS LOVER SLEEP IN 1980

— The End —