"sleepwalker" poems - Hello Poetry

"sleepwalker" poems

i woke up this morning with a snowflake on the tip of my nose and i thought i became a sleepwalker. its the first time that im haunting the dreamworld with my eyes wide open and i believe. i was sleeping actually. and it was fog and hoarfrost and everything smelled of oranges. mom says it smells like Christmas but i dont sense any pine-tree. so no. the snowflake melted and i still did not wake up and i almost had a panick attack because i was not sleeping, i was not awake either and i was home, where it is impossible for snowflakes to fall. tangerines. yes. not oranges.

0

Apr 29, 2015

Apr 29, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC

i woke up this morning with a snowflake on the tip of my nose and i thought i became a sleepwalker. its the first time that im haunting the dreamworld with my eyes wide open and i believe. i was sleeping actually. and it was fog and hoarfrost and everything smelled of oranges. mom says it smells like Christmas but i dont sense any pine-tree. so no. the snowflake melted and i still did not wake up and i almost had a panick attack because i was not sleeping, i was not awake either and i was home, where it is impossible for snowflakes to fall. tangerines. yes. not oranges.

Continue reading...

I'm not a poet I'm just emotional twenty-something emotions those hit hard I'm not a poet only a sleepwalker, my fingers burning to type my laptop keyboard so well-lit so I fall into the desire I'm not a poet I just whisper to a quiet altar called Hello Poetry a fatal attraction so I type welcome to the cult

0

Apr 13, 2025

Apr 13, 2025 at 3:45 PM UTC

I'm not a poet I'm just emotional twenty-something emotions those hit hard I'm not a poet only a sleepwalker, my fingers burning to type my laptop keyboard so well-lit so I fall into the desire I'm not a poet I just whisper to a quiet altar called Hello Poetry a fatal attraction so I type welcome to the cult

Continue reading...

time slips from my fingers when i count each passing day that passes by like passerbys on a busy street walking past me, my disillusioned form an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker a recurring thought the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses the passage of space things don't make sense nowadays never really did i'm just a ghost with no body to call home translucent and vague people watching forever forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.

0

Mar 31, 2022

Mar 31, 2022 at 2:16 PM UTC

time slips from my fingers when i count each passing day that passes by like passerbys on a busy street walking past me, my disillusioned form an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker a recurring thought the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses the passage of space things don't make sense nowadays never really did i'm just a ghost with no body to call home translucent and vague people watching forever forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.

Continue reading...

We are born with luck which is to say with gold in our mouth. As new and smooth as a grape, as pure as a pond in Alaska, as good as the stem of a green bean-- we are born and that ought to be enough, we ought to be able to carry on from that but one must learn about evil, learn what is subhuman, learn how the blood pops out like a scream, one must see the night before one can realize the day, one must listen hard to the animal within, one must walk like a sleepwalker on the edge of a roof, one must throw some part of her body into the devil's mouth. Odd stuff, you'd say. But I'd say you must die a little, have a book of matches go off in your hand, see your best friend copying your exam, visit an Indian reservation and see their plastic feathers, the dead dream. One must be a prisoner just once to hear the lock twist into his gut. After all that one is free to grasp at the trees, the stones, the sky, the birds that make sense out of air. But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.

0

2k

The Evil Seekers

We are born with luck which is to say with gold in our mouth. As new and smooth as a grape, as pure as a pond in Alaska, as good as the stem of a green bean-- we are born and that ought to be enough, we ought to be able to carry on from that but one must learn about evil, learn what is subhuman, learn how the blood pops out like a scream, one must see the night before one can realize the day, one must listen hard to the animal within, one must walk like a sleepwalker on the edge of a roof, one must throw some part of her body into the devil's mouth. Odd stuff, you'd say. But I'd say you must die a little, have a book of matches go off in your hand, see your best friend copying your exam, visit an Indian reservation and see their plastic feathers, the dead dream. One must be a prisoner just once to hear the lock twist into his gut. After all that one is free to grasp at the trees, the stones, the sky, the birds that make sense out of air. But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.

Continue reading...

These marks upon my hands from clinging on too tight Whilst I clutched onto the lamp I held that lonely night As I saw lines upon your face and knew you as tired Your senses lost as you walked blindly past lamp fire You walked slowly, eyes open, but closed Pale cheeks replacing the ones that were rose All things done awake, but asleep My trembling fingers and heavy feet daring to creep Wood floor creaking with each step you took Turning as if memory with glazed, unflinching look Into the kitchen, as in sleep, you took the knife And with a plunge of a knife and the crash of a lamp, I bade my last goodnight

0

Oct 2, 2012

Oct 2, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC

These marks upon my hands from clinging on too tight Whilst I clutched onto the lamp I held that lonely night As I saw lines upon your face and knew you as tired Your senses lost as you walked blindly past lamp fire You walked slowly, eyes open, but closed Pale cheeks replacing the ones that were rose All things done awake, but asleep My trembling fingers and heavy feet daring to creep Wood floor creaking with each step you took Turning as if memory with glazed, unflinching look Into the kitchen, as in sleep, you took the knife And with a plunge of a knife and the crash of a lamp, I bade my last goodnight

Continue reading...

Consider the coffee cup in the bitter early morning clutched by the weary, in the hands of the sleepwalker. A Styrofoam chimney that warms bodies to the bones. Like a silo of potential energy that awakens and inspires. A companion of the cigarette soft pack, as long as both are full When empty, a ruffian of a house abandoned or a vacant playground, a soul void of vivacity. Sleepy fingers trace the serpentine trail of steam escaping via vent in the lid; gateway to wakefulness Perched in a nest of hands guarding the sanctuary for the alert This storehouse of caffeine must be rationed. It’s contents dark, rich, bold, spilling scolding and fierce and alive. Consider the coffee cup a comrade, a loyalist Companion of the diligent, the learning, the weary.

0

Aug 23, 2011

Aug 23, 2011 at 3:46 AM UTC

Consider the Coffee Cup

Consider the coffee cup in the bitter early morning clutched by the weary, in the hands of the sleepwalker. A Styrofoam chimney that warms bodies to the bones. Like a silo of potential energy that awakens and inspires. A companion of the cigarette soft pack, as long as both are full When empty, a ruffian of a house abandoned or a vacant playground, a soul void of vivacity. Sleepy fingers trace the serpentine trail of steam escaping via vent in the lid; gateway to wakefulness Perched in a nest of hands guarding the sanctuary for the alert This storehouse of caffeine must be rationed. It’s contents dark, rich, bold, spilling scolding and fierce and alive. Consider the coffee cup a comrade, a loyalist Companion of the diligent, the learning, the weary.

Continue reading...

Take me To our ship in the trees Those barefoot games- I'm dreaming in concrete. Like a lamb led Chasing the curse of skin. Coal full of fire, and A scent that burned We were gone too far, Limbs seduced A sleepwalker's dance Of surrendered sighs. Merest memories Scald the touch. Your gaze, Endless seas Beneath crowding skies.

0

Mar 8, 2010

Mar 8, 2010 at 1:23 PM UTC

Take me To our ship in the trees Those barefoot games- I'm dreaming in concrete. Like a lamb led Chasing the curse of skin. Coal full of fire, and A scent that burned We were gone too far, Limbs seduced A sleepwalker's dance Of surrendered sighs. Merest memories Scald the touch. Your gaze, Endless seas Beneath crowding skies.

Continue reading...

When I was a kid, and all of my friends were kids, and all of us kids lived down the same street that I still live on as a not kid that none of my kid friends still live on as not kids, there was a day in the summer, or the spring.... my not kid brain has a hard time conjuring up my kid thoughts, I just remember walking outside and it was so hot And we fetched our bikes from the shed and walked them to the blacktop only to find the greatest gift nature could bring us: a thousand tiny caterpillars crawling on the road. We couldn't ride our bikes in the street or we would squish them so we dropped them where we stood and did the only thing we knew we should: ran inside and asked mama for the ziplock bags and collected as many as we could. We thought we were saving them from any cars that might need to go down our dead end road. We didn't know what to do with them so we kept them in the bag and left them in my kid friends parents living room, sealed tight so nothing could get to them. The next morning we went to check on them and the bag was empty. Looking back now, I realize we probably deprived them of oxygen, starved them of nutrients and space, and probably separated them from their families. I feel bad about that, but that's not the point. The reason I am recalling this memory and putting it into words is because I've had an epiphany. They were robbed a chrysalis, they never flew away as beautiful butterflies. They slept overnight in a bag with many others, waiting to puddle and flutter before they chewed their way through plastic or they died. What we did as kids to those caterpillars, it's how I love.. Sometimes I find caterpillars in the pits of people's stomachs and my intrigue is spiked like a child's with wonder, but I always pluck the caterpillars before they get too far.. Maybe I'm a secret sleepwalker and I unconciously let them go. I sure hope so.

0

Feb 24, 2016

Feb 24, 2016 at 1:21 AM UTC

Closeddoorsandwelcomemats

When I was a kid, and all of my friends were kids, and all of us kids lived down the same street that I still live on as a not kid that none of my kid friends still live on as not kids, there was a day in the summer, or the spring.... my not kid brain has a hard time conjuring up my kid thoughts, I just remember walking outside and it was so hot And we fetched our bikes from the shed and walked them to the blacktop only to find the greatest gift nature could bring us: a thousand tiny caterpillars crawling on the road. We couldn't ride our bikes in the street or we would squish them so we dropped them where we stood and did the only thing we knew we should: ran inside and asked mama for the ziplock bags and collected as many as we could. We thought we were saving them from any cars that might need to go down our dead end road. We didn't know what to do with them so we kept them in the bag and left them in my kid friends parents living room, sealed tight so nothing could get to them. The next morning we went to check on them and the bag was empty. Looking back now, I realize we probably deprived them of oxygen, starved them of nutrients and space, and probably separated them from their families. I feel bad about that, but that's not the point. The reason I am recalling this memory and putting it into words is because I've had an epiphany. They were robbed a chrysalis, they never flew away as beautiful butterflies. They slept overnight in a bag with many others, waiting to puddle and flutter before they chewed their way through plastic or they died. What we did as kids to those caterpillars, it's how I love.. Sometimes I find caterpillars in the pits of people's stomachs and my intrigue is spiked like a child's with wonder, but I always pluck the caterpillars before they get too far.. Maybe I'm a secret sleepwalker and I unconciously let them go. I sure hope so.

Continue reading...

Like a sleepwalker she passed through each day. Voices chattered in her head, Snatches of conversations That she could not quite catch. She dropped like a stone through her emotions And lay in silence on the bottom. Battered and bruised She ached at every turn, Or floated softly among the shadows Guarding her spirit. It seemed she had passed Through a threshold of pain That held her on the edge, Like the new born...... And the shadows nurtured her Behind the veil of her own consciousness, Waiting for the memory To rise up into the light of her being. When it came she was filled with fire, Warming her as it spread through her soul, And she knew a new knowledge That was older than she, Older than her previous selves , Older than the Earth. Slowly,she raised herself, Taller than she'd ever been. Filled with courage she stepped out, Over the edge, And she joined all of her other selves, Embracing them with open arms. Sobbing,she acknowledged herself As she flew with her shadows Back through time, Back to her beginning From whence she had first set out In the darkness of ignorance. The light shone so brightly, Drawing her own light towards it In a spinning ****** so intense That she let go of herself, Separating into a million points of light as she joined the pool. Her lights bounced off each light They touched in an ecstasy of greeting. Looking back , Towards the edge, She watched the shadows Nod their satisfaction Before they turned away, Fading into the darkness that was the Earth.

0

Nov 26, 2021

Nov 26, 2021 at 2:25 PM UTC

Like a sleepwalker she passed through each day. Voices chattered in her head, Snatches of conversations That she could not quite catch. She dropped like a stone through her emotions And lay in silence on the bottom. Battered and bruised She ached at every turn, Or floated softly among the shadows Guarding her spirit. It seemed she had passed Through a threshold of pain That held her on the edge, Like the new born...... And the shadows nurtured her Behind the veil of her own consciousness, Waiting for the memory To rise up into the light of her being. When it came she was filled with fire, Warming her as it spread through her soul, And she knew a new knowledge That was older than she, Older than her previous selves , Older than the Earth. Slowly,she raised herself, Taller than she'd ever been. Filled with courage she stepped out, Over the edge, And she joined all of her other selves, Embracing them with open arms. Sobbing,she acknowledged herself As she flew with her shadows Back through time, Back to her beginning From whence she had first set out In the darkness of ignorance. The light shone so brightly, Drawing her own light towards it In a spinning ****** so intense That she let go of herself, Separating into a million points of light as she joined the pool. Her lights bounced off each light They touched in an ecstasy of greeting. Looking back , Towards the edge, She watched the shadows Nod their satisfaction Before they turned away, Fading into the darkness that was the Earth.

Continue reading...

She was a fiction of his imagination and when she beckoned he would step out sleepwalking Destined for a fall but not before she vanished in the waking hours And then appeared after the sun before the moon to catch him as they lay down beneath a blanket of stars

0

Jul 25, 2013

Jul 25, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC

She was a fiction of his imagination and when she beckoned he would step out sleepwalking Destined for a fall but not before she vanished in the waking hours And then appeared after the sun before the moon to catch him as they lay down beneath a blanket of stars

Continue reading...

Cruel saints Spoke like whimper dolls And wished the world more Than what it was Loft and mind Comes crumbling every dawn When the bell tolls morn Reality shakes our walls Those hands of a dreamer Calloused wrists or fitful lids Fit in that hollow Of your chest so easily And warm breath rather suits Cold air, rather than lips Tender sleeves never could Keep our fingers from wandering . . . The pages of your soul Decipher And fall apart What terror Lies in our hearts Decipher And fall apart What terror Lies in our hearts

0

Aug 17, 2013

Aug 17, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC

Cruel saints Spoke like whimper dolls And wished the world more Than what it was Loft and mind Comes crumbling every dawn When the bell tolls morn Reality shakes our walls Those hands of a dreamer Calloused wrists or fitful lids Fit in that hollow Of your chest so easily And warm breath rather suits Cold air, rather than lips Tender sleeves never could Keep our fingers from wandering . . . The pages of your soul Decipher And fall apart What terror Lies in our hearts Decipher And fall apart What terror Lies in our hearts

Continue reading...

At night rise, to the buzz of my son’s blood, I wake and blow aboriginal dust from my lungs, Get up and take a turn around the house. The place has gotten cold. This cock-eyed family – good God, they are helpless. I tried to help by leaving things behind, Like this prayer on the wall About the timelessness of beauty. And did you find the poem About Freud and mountain climbing? All they do is wail privately And try to pass it off as singing. My son sleeps like a chessmaster, Shocked into resignation. He dreams about me, And his dreams are riddled with light And longing for the past. Such nocturnal naiveté. But he knows the stars And because, like the ancient Greeks, He can follow them home, He will leave this place before it leaves him. This house gets smaller all the time. Still, the furniture breathes quietly, And the dancers in the tapestry sway Though faded by the sun. The dust from my breath settles down in layers. Pale light silvers the living room mirror. My steps leave footprints before each foot falls. The footprints lead back to my door. It is time to lie down. Soon my son will wake up, And shake off the ashes of sleep. I don't live here any more. My death will begin again.

0

Oct 6, 2015

Oct 6, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC

At night rise, to the buzz of my son’s blood, I wake and blow aboriginal dust from my lungs, Get up and take a turn around the house. The place has gotten cold. This cock-eyed family – good God, they are helpless. I tried to help by leaving things behind, Like this prayer on the wall About the timelessness of beauty. And did you find the poem About Freud and mountain climbing? All they do is wail privately And try to pass it off as singing. My son sleeps like a chessmaster, Shocked into resignation. He dreams about me, And his dreams are riddled with light And longing for the past. Such nocturnal naiveté. But he knows the stars And because, like the ancient Greeks, He can follow them home, He will leave this place before it leaves him. This house gets smaller all the time. Still, the furniture breathes quietly, And the dancers in the tapestry sway Though faded by the sun. The dust from my breath settles down in layers. Pale light silvers the living room mirror. My steps leave footprints before each foot falls. The footprints lead back to my door. It is time to lie down. Soon my son will wake up, And shake off the ashes of sleep. I don't live here any more. My death will begin again.

Continue reading...

Oh my peaceful dreamer how have I gotten here? My legs will do the walking when my dreams are all I fear. Oh my restful darling the sun is growing near, all I ask is stay with me and whisper in my ear. Oh my sleeping sweetheart the cliff I stand is sheer. At the base I shall remain when pain begins to sear. Oh my peaceful dreamer how have I gotten here? I feel the darkness calling so I must disappear.

0

Aug 30, 2013

Aug 30, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC

The Sleepwalker

Oh my peaceful dreamer how have I gotten here? My legs will do the walking when my dreams are all I fear. Oh my restful darling the sun is growing near, all I ask is stay with me and whisper in my ear. Oh my sleeping sweetheart the cliff I stand is sheer. At the base I shall remain when pain begins to sear. Oh my peaceful dreamer how have I gotten here? I feel the darkness calling so I must disappear.

Continue reading...

Sleepwalker, take me by the hand. Show me the way you go. You see nothing, oh Sleepwalker, your days are movies and shows. How do you see in the dark and live comfortably in fear? Sleepwalker, is it not possible to hold promises or be sincere? Everything is not at all what it seems. Stay alone, Sleepwalker, you are not meant to be on anyone's team. Will you attend your own funeral or even be invited to show? After all, Sleepwalker, you would be the last to know.

0

Sep 7, 2012

Sep 7, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC

frankie-gestone

Sleepwalker, take me by the hand. Show me the way you go. You see nothing, oh Sleepwalker, your days are movies and shows. How do you see in the dark and live comfortably in fear? Sleepwalker, is it not possible to hold promises or be sincere? Everything is not at all what it seems. Stay alone, Sleepwalker, you are not meant to be on anyone's team. Will you attend your own funeral or even be invited to show? After all, Sleepwalker, you would be the last to know.

Continue reading...

Every **** too wants to tell it's story to us loud, my eyes trained to span galaxies light years away weren't good seeing the flowers,on weeds for long, then an unexplained lightening connecting all cells, flashes within, I turn back and see things in a new light, those blue and yellow flowers kept hidden by an invisible blind,smile with a joy and it brings anew a vision of beauty. A flower is a flower, even if offered by a humble **** like the words I heard spoken from a sleepwalker's lips, with a less emphatic tone smeared with dusts of dreams still I hear it's heart beat, a cadence so exhilarating. Every rice plant in the field, drooping in the heaviness of ripened grains, is muted, the wind that caresses both are equally cool,benign; every **** wishes to explain, so I won't miss their music, even by some chance did misshapen.

0

Oct 11, 2015

Oct 11, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC

My ears don't miss music even did misshappen

Every **** too wants to tell it's story to us loud, my eyes trained to span galaxies light years away weren't good seeing the flowers,on weeds for long, then an unexplained lightening connecting all cells, flashes within, I turn back and see things in a new light, those blue and yellow flowers kept hidden by an invisible blind,smile with a joy and it brings anew a vision of beauty. A flower is a flower, even if offered by a humble **** like the words I heard spoken from a sleepwalker's lips, with a less emphatic tone smeared with dusts of dreams still I hear it's heart beat, a cadence so exhilarating. Every rice plant in the field, drooping in the heaviness of ripened grains, is muted, the wind that caresses both are equally cool,benign; every **** wishes to explain, so I won't miss their music, even by some chance did misshapen.

Continue reading...

Maybe you could be my Maria But maybe my Maria is all you'll ever be Am I alive or is this just a vivid dream? Or am I just making up stories? If I grew wings I'd stay out of the air 'Cuz I've knocked on Heaven's door but nobody seems to be there Sleepwalker, I've been chasing you for days Its been 'round twenty two years since I've seen your face I want to dance with a question, I'm through with talking straight Sleepwalker, I want to change your name All the highway signs are painted with your name Oh, the way you love me could be just a car up in flames But as white as my knuckles get I'm pushing down, I'm flooring it And the streets howl of lost love caution underneath my wheels But these cold streets couldn't ever understand what I feel Sleepwalker, you're no dead end avenue A morphine dream from a concrete point of view I follow the chalk outline of a kiss to your castle in the air My salvation found in the tangles of your hair Oh, I've been chasing you for days Sleepwalker, are you finally awake?

0

Sep 1, 2010

Sep 1, 2010 at 11:36 PM UTC

Maybe you could be my Maria But maybe my Maria is all you'll ever be Am I alive or is this just a vivid dream? Or am I just making up stories? If I grew wings I'd stay out of the air 'Cuz I've knocked on Heaven's door but nobody seems to be there Sleepwalker, I've been chasing you for days Its been 'round twenty two years since I've seen your face I want to dance with a question, I'm through with talking straight Sleepwalker, I want to change your name All the highway signs are painted with your name Oh, the way you love me could be just a car up in flames But as white as my knuckles get I'm pushing down, I'm flooring it And the streets howl of lost love caution underneath my wheels But these cold streets couldn't ever understand what I feel Sleepwalker, you're no dead end avenue A morphine dream from a concrete point of view I follow the chalk outline of a kiss to your castle in the air My salvation found in the tangles of your hair Oh, I've been chasing you for days Sleepwalker, are you finally awake?

Continue reading...

Honesty frankly a refreshingly bright comical view on the non laughable matter!!!

0

Nov 27, 2012

Nov 27, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC

Refreshingly honestly anti-hynotic of sleepwalker's defaulting's

Honesty frankly a refreshingly bright comical view on the non laughable matter!!!

Continue reading...

Viva tu vida sin tristeza Bold statement but I tire. Goodnight for now soft sleepwalker.

0

Jul 23, 2013

Jul 23, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC

Apathy's embrace can be sweet.

Viva tu vida sin tristeza Bold statement but I tire. Goodnight for now soft sleepwalker.

Continue reading...

What if time just slowly slipped? ..Out of mine, and your fingertips.. What if this moment is just all it is, how could we capture it? And savor it? How can I keep you longer than this? Maybe I should break the clocks.. so there'll be more time for us We don't need the busy streets, or the sound from drunken towns.. Maybe I could clone the world so this one could be our alternate.. That would be so lovely, Oh wouldn't it? Just a fraction of your satisfaction's enough.. So I will fight with blood and sweat and tears But how can I keep you longer here? What if I could guide you through this life? I promise I will be the sun in your sky What if I told you.. Every minute with you, makes me feel alive.. Would you stay another minute, one last time? 'Cause I was drifting in existence, falling through.. Just a sleepwalker, whose now a dreamer.. Waking up to thoughts of you <3

0

Apr 11, 2014

Apr 11, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC

the-poetry-wizard

Can I Keep You? [Lyrics]

What if time just slowly slipped? ..Out of mine, and your fingertips.. What if this moment is just all it is, how could we capture it? And savor it? How can I keep you longer than this? Maybe I should break the clocks.. so there'll be more time for us We don't need the busy streets, or the sound from drunken towns.. Maybe I could clone the world so this one could be our alternate.. That would be so lovely, Oh wouldn't it? Just a fraction of your satisfaction's enough.. So I will fight with blood and sweat and tears But how can I keep you longer here? What if I could guide you through this life? I promise I will be the sun in your sky What if I told you.. Every minute with you, makes me feel alive.. Would you stay another minute, one last time? 'Cause I was drifting in existence, falling through.. Just a sleepwalker, whose now a dreamer.. Waking up to thoughts of you <3

Continue reading...

Mr. Sandman please take my hand Guide me through the hills and valley's of distant dream lands Keep me safe from nightmares whenever you can If it's not to much trouble could you bring extra sand Can Sleepwalker please come with me I need a close companion as I float through my dreams Through the landscape of the nights make believe He could even carry all my baggage for me Could you please leave the Boogie Man home With his satchel of nightmares filled with seeds he has sown I hear that it's best to leave well enough alone What's the saying? it want hurt him if he doesn't know? Mr. Sandman could you do this for me Could you include one or two fantasies It would make it all a bit more interesting Mr. Sandman could you do all this for me

0

May 3, 2014

May 3, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC

Mr. Sandman please take my hand Guide me through the hills and valley's of distant dream lands Keep me safe from nightmares whenever you can If it's not to much trouble could you bring extra sand Can Sleepwalker please come with me I need a close companion as I float through my dreams Through the landscape of the nights make believe He could even carry all my baggage for me Could you please leave the Boogie Man home With his satchel of nightmares filled with seeds he has sown I hear that it's best to leave well enough alone What's the saying? it want hurt him if he doesn't know? Mr. Sandman could you do this for me Could you include one or two fantasies It would make it all a bit more interesting Mr. Sandman could you do all this for me

Continue reading...

I. Love has a pulse A rhythm method Sometimes Hand in hand Others Hand-to-hand Best wedding gift: A book of matches For those times of Darkness ahead II. Coming out of the ether The gravitate to "we" Is no longer in Simulation We are space Outer and uncharted Breathe deep now Once again Let pressurization Begin III. Spontaneous Combustion Magic hour Learn by repetition Crouching tiger, hidden dragon Tongue on the verge Circling the rosebud Like the rise of an empire Blown by the wind Every which way The blissful vein Is tapped into IV. Localized storm Waves against the sandbags Not quite filled enough Water gets in Does its damage The insurance policy With no flood coverage We are now indeed An island V. Sacrificial offering Open palms Bowed heads Recite your sorrows And count the losses Forgiveness comes like Piecemeal A little at a time VI. Something new And loud and wet Love has a different hue To its sky It will be cloud free Never again A hunt for a nap Or dreams of napping In this maddening mosaic That blurs the line between Caretaker and sleepwalker VII. Endurance wins the race Not good intentions Home can survive The change of seasons We plant the flowers We water the lawn We rake the leaves We prune the trees This is our garden If we don't tend to it Who will?

0

Dec 5, 2019

Dec 5, 2019 at 9:33 AM UTC

The Marriage Toll

I. Love has a pulse A rhythm method Sometimes Hand in hand Others Hand-to-hand Best wedding gift: A book of matches For those times of Darkness ahead II. Coming out of the ether The gravitate to "we" Is no longer in Simulation We are space Outer and uncharted Breathe deep now Once again Let pressurization Begin III. Spontaneous Combustion Magic hour Learn by repetition Crouching tiger, hidden dragon Tongue on the verge Circling the rosebud Like the rise of an empire Blown by the wind Every which way The blissful vein Is tapped into IV. Localized storm Waves against the sandbags Not quite filled enough Water gets in Does its damage The insurance policy With no flood coverage We are now indeed An island V. Sacrificial offering Open palms Bowed heads Recite your sorrows And count the losses Forgiveness comes like Piecemeal A little at a time VI. Something new And loud and wet Love has a different hue To its sky It will be cloud free Never again A hunt for a nap Or dreams of napping In this maddening mosaic That blurs the line between Caretaker and sleepwalker VII. Endurance wins the race Not good intentions Home can survive The change of seasons We plant the flowers We water the lawn We rake the leaves We prune the trees This is our garden If we don't tend to it Who will?

Continue reading...

Often times I find myself wandering in an empty field. I am alone, and I can feel the grass caressing my ankles. It was familiar the first time I have done this, since that origami swan took you, flew you off in a distance where even eight minutes of light isn’t enough. Familiar like lying is always the only fun I can ever have. Though the place is dim, the sky is not an empty space. Salt sprinkled, I see the stars sparkle, the way your eyes do. I trace your name, connecting each dot of light, and, yes, this has to be the last letter, hoping that you’ll see it this time— even when eight minutes of light travel isn’t even enough.

0

Apr 28, 2013

Apr 28, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC

jefferson-lexus-jonson

After the Night Called the Sleepwalker

Often times I find myself wandering in an empty field. I am alone, and I can feel the grass caressing my ankles. It was familiar the first time I have done this, since that origami swan took you, flew you off in a distance where even eight minutes of light isn’t enough. Familiar like lying is always the only fun I can ever have. Though the place is dim, the sky is not an empty space. Salt sprinkled, I see the stars sparkle, the way your eyes do. I trace your name, connecting each dot of light, and, yes, this has to be the last letter, hoping that you’ll see it this time— even when eight minutes of light travel isn’t even enough.

Continue reading...