"somnambulant" poems
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
One of the most humorous conditions that a creature could burden itself with is a somnambulant desire to be to it’s own liking .
Maxillary extrapolation although a positive political expectorant is likewise a practical partiality .
I prefer to be philanthropically phenological although rational impedance is my histophysiology . My present participle is practical pragmatism and tertiary transcendentalism . Xenoplasticly speaking I feel alone but plausibility is a probationer in reflective self awareness . Atrociously impetuous I proceeded amidst heinously horrendous heckledom . Adequate inflection is a relevant relative to retaliatory regression but I digress . Paraphernalia is a practitioner to plausibility’s cause and should be assimilated through cognizance not perfunctory preferentialism .
Hegelian humanitarianism must supersede political subterfugalism or all may be lost in quagmire .
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
This.
Stimuli.
It depletes me.
Turn, turn around.
And complete me.
I, lost all control.
And this sense of lament is visceral.
I bleed, from the outside.
Numb death, turning, becoming inside.
I.
Just need one thing.
A child’s toy, nostalgic and stuffed.
A somnambulant hymn.
To remove me.
Disassociate, please.
Your hand is soft.
Placed places that comfort.
I miss your scent, that congeals.
I wish I didn’t have to feel nothing.
Emptiness is so guttural and potent.
I can’t help but see.
Everything slip by.
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 1:54 PM UTC
Via some somnambulant halfway
house of mind and body...
the chin kisses both shoulder
blades as an owl's head three
hundred and sixty degrees deep
to impale a center.
Crepuscular to the degree of
abridging an Orpheus (center)
to a Eurydice (circumference).
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 10:13 PM UTC
this longing is legacy
for a girl cut in half
cold currents of knife
astride darkest path
without stopping for daylight
in somnambulant flight
(your 2 a.m. smile is reason enough)
sheets of sound
somber
the womb of an angel
a war goddess unbound
o
a
stasis seraphic
shrink wrapped
in sweet plastic
((the perfumed fields are elastic
with crowned princes dynastic))
this mortal season
on
this perfect day
strikes the hearts of the stolen
in a fugitive way
the clarified fire
sinew and lean
eats the sins
of the heavens
where the ashes convene
the park with the lake
is wooded and pretty
the sky's on the grass
in an underground city
i'm calling from a
subterranean ocean
the shells are all closed
and the waves are all broken
in a minute the tides
will all swell
the gulls will
pack up
and the moonlight will dwell
say hello to
the girls from the sand
they can walk on the water
but never on land
the stars are submerged
all fallen and drowned
the light from the depths
shines upside down
ursa major
orion's belt
ursa minor
ice water vega
reversed ocean liner
inverted looks like the water
twisted so tonal sounds
mother and daughter
sister and brother
packed in blue ice
from the curves of the earth
and the jaws of a vise
in these dragonteeth winter days
you pick your time carefully
endpoints are delays
the decay of such that
they cannot touch
or remove them
erasing straight thoughts
as a means to improve them
sailing seas beneath
the skin underneath
the unrequited life
just out of reach
i'll nevercomplete it
i'll never repeat it
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
wHat beckons is the silent Kingdom
a sanctum holy devoid. whose apt walls
are tawny bricks of quiet. the patrons
clamor somnambulant. and heaps of
proffered tongues litter the illucid
broken halls.
the forgetful powder piles neatly
limbs of gray on and about and
the pews drink the sun or the sky
is a plait of onyx feathers.
an arrhythmia of breathes struggle
daft lungs. the stillness beats. bleating
nothing lambs flocked in stupid silver.
the mouths are all corded sinew bound.
epitaphs scrawled untidy letters drench
cheeks apathetic. a corpse of hollow resonance.
step and stone; cadaverous hues, sallow indolent
light on every stanchion.
in
the cathedral, cloistered, is a stiff artery.
a heart stagnant veins. a king whose crown is
ash, a face whose efforts are unfleshed. no skin
has purchase. nor sight. empty hood scythe loaded
dreams the morphea plated scalp. a soft vesical
limpid chromatic fingernails scrabble festering
nodes.
he is waiting
in the comfort of his filth
lithe carpals flexing summons
to his cloak
the candles are making naked lips
kissing darkness; lovers uncut
bound fornicating. i sitting sat saturated
the valley fluxes.
and a tissue of blue decrepit
night dusting the sin of noise. a naked wind
so says
he
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC
I'm a peripatetic napper aka a somnambulant philosopher... who is prone to salubrious somniloquy aka hammock rapping, on a variety of savory subjects such as which parts, leaves, petals, stems, peels or fruit of the lilikoi and guava families make the sweetest and most healing teas... for example, I sense that you can swallow this soporific soliloquy straight or with some surf, salt, sea and sunshine and skip the sleeping pills indefinitely..
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
I loathe to appear boring
but I am.
Mesmerising reflections
Sordid depths pried
for a sliver of truth.
Geometric shells
Fenestrative awakening
enrapt you non-somnambulant.
Suddenly
I find attraction no longer active.
It must be an affirmation
I’m unsure of what
Perhaps never to know.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
To those who speak against being 'rude': you are not a friend of truth or understanding.
You coddle yourself in a somnambulant daze,
Where the harshest realities lay deep in your soul,
And you walk away, as far from this dormant minefield you've lain,
Leaving the active bombs for others to stumble upon.
And they suffer because of your laziness,
Avoiding your task of diffusing these bombs that only you understand,
And you still aren't sure where the schematics are,
So the damage continues,
And you have become a despot,
Watching people die from your pointless violence.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Fall
U
1 somnambulant princess
from
heaven dearly
creaking
hushed
tumults
U
leaking flashes
in Paris
U have a wry lipless smile
struck leaning
against a church playground
smothered
in you child dying
Ur a playful
hair seriously
sets the dirt on edge
and all trees
inU
are nudest
by bell ringing
in a church yard
leans the fair
mushy
uglywonderful
body of
U
Fall
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 3:17 PM UTC
for scores of beings in existence in this lonesome hive as chemically comforted bees with many queens
for slaves who enslave the enslaved in the illusion of time perpetually counting down an esoteric clock of immortality
for dreamers still sleeping and sleepers counting sheep contently humming the sacrificial lullaby while ignoring the world at their feet
Listen to me!
for moloch and for baal and for lucifer and for horus and for baphomet and for satan they have you singing their heretical praises of christianity
controlled by the illuminations of an omnipotent flat screen TV force feeding you expired symbols all moldy with blasphemy
sexualized by the iridescent rainbows of the pedophilic Disney, ****** by Donald Duck in parental apathy
enraged by the deceit of the politically correct who suggest you obsess over unimportance and label obliviously
blamed when your grain burns at 180 degrees as a systematic shaming in the name of psychology
killing our expression by beheading creativity with an adderall laced guillotine
killing our knowledge by slitting the throat of wisdom with a callous false doctrine
killing our happiness by asphyxiating joy with a shopping bag all the while mocking
killing our legacies by ****** communities with the cold hard ***** of corporations
killing our togetherness by drowning human connection in the electrified oceans of a delusiinal social media
killing our faith by infecting our children with the spiritual disease of viral anti-christianity
Holy holy holy!
...the zombified mindset of this somnambulant society
Holy holy holy!
...the ever present sepearation from Love being free
Holy holy holy!
...the sleepwalking lemmings are cursed by their greed...
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
Live in the moment, we exhort ourselves as well as others,
But such a mandate is a fool’s errand, nothing more,
For all which we endeavor, all we savor and regret,
Are transitory things, snatches of synapse,
Fireflies gone a-gleaming before we can fasten the cap,
All Chinese-checkerboarded with air holes, onto the jar.
So forgive me, then, for not extolling the virtues
Of your laugh, your smile, a certain set of jaw or wrinkle of nose,
For those are fleeting morsels of time,
Mere snapshots, flat and obsolete at the click of the shutter,
Like the crimson-iris inducing Instamatic images of long ago.
Rather let me, then, dwell
Upon the aftermath of these glimmers in time, in your eyes
Those crevices of memory and apprehension
Where the momentary acquires its shading and gradation,
Its context and concreteness, its niche in ones cosmology
Of those things which flutter the surface
Of somnambulant ponds of sleep,
Roiling the stuff of our dreams for better or for worse.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 12:45 PM UTC
Her is
some
some drowsy
myst of being; a
palpable drift
of
white white white sleeeeeeeep,
from the curt
lips of
dark waters
with tense sheen
of dull light
she fits
she slips
1 pill somnambulant
through drunk
through dowsed
coils in scarlet
laying
laying
laying
(in xanadu
where
k u b la kh a n
a
s
t
a
t ely
p lea s ur edom edid de c
r
e
e
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
accursed creepily haunting
phantasmagoria wraiths
vandalize residents psyches
within their sleep induced state
sublimation shunts
slumbering souls
unknowingly held hostage
successfully sacrificing
semi-smothered silent species
snoring simians steadfastly succumb
subsequent sibilant sounds
woo woebegone wicked transmogrification
dilapidated divested bodies deposited
wizard waves wand
watching whirling wretched lovely bones
whipsawing (in toto) within abyss
whooshing whistling wheezing
whets warlocks appetite wakening
brutish nasty nightmare
sinister hulking spirits
steal assorted corporeal essence
monstrous mashing somnambulant
mephistophelian shadowy satanic satyrs
supremely swallow senior citizen bankers
deep within catacombs
of Highland Manor,
deadened defeated Delphic Oracle
relegates human husks,
viz spent embodiments
to the under world lay siege
sinisterly seeding, via sinister spirits
one pure evil particularly wicked
witch thy capering
sickening ghastly plot against
unsuspecting spouse snatched
parch trey gnarled warty claws.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Your eyes flash like mirrored lightning
a fire that burns of drowsy desire
those somnambulant romances
heavy and damp
where hope grows in a meadow of whispers
like the alchemist and doyen of deconstruction
it echoes in twilight’s caress
willingly a bolt is unhinged
breathed out heavily between sighs
when passion ignites the plumes of incandescent liquid ash
and untethered silhouettes
find ease and comfort in the contours of shadows
transforming a dimly lit cabin
into a paradise of colours
and hastily made promises.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Trying to perceive the dissonance
I changed paths
Walked and treaded, went looking for the mendacious among the
Well read, there lay somnambulant desires
Was time and space, I could not face the present summer months seem longer
The billowing nimbuses turned into the peach clouds meant to be there
Sadness washes over your face like acid and acrid Pink Floyd
The painkillers just wash down your sink with the medication
The window of torture in the soul's window
Call it watching the smokescreen with scion meant watching
The sunrise
The same reminiscent pain comes to haunt you again
They're watching and praying
I hope you find your wealth in good luck, but good wealth in bad luck
But, you can't be rich and pretend to not talk about it
Go ahead then let's talk about it
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
how many idle landscapes
and unturned stones of fancy
have dissolved to into light
at the sight of the rising sun?
pull back the curtains of your phantasy
then pull back the curtains of your window
and let the dreams melt until
the night is a somnambulant pile.
the thoughts of your skull being pounded by morn
the unborn remains of the musings of muses
eyelids drooping and, with hesitation, rising,
and then your body does the same.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
I go where the trees are sleeping in droves.
in the peace of somnambulant groves;
perched in frostbite and sugar, with all my teeth
and postage stamps gathered into a pile
of awkward. But I continue like a crop
of circular arguments.
i hang stars where a storm should be.
and can’t remember where i was
Wednesday.
I'm always this.
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
I make room in my heart for other mothers’ children:
For young women who can’t yet see beyond their own insecurities,
For adolescent men who trip across the line between charming and churlish,
For students who are angry when they meet me,
For learners who have only known failure,
For special snowflakes who see their own importance clearly
But lack the words to understand their privilege,
For children who are cracked and bent by trauma
That’s been doled out by the world,
And for those whose drama is self-created,
Because being sixteen is a trial we must all endure.
I will love the impatient, the unruly,
the somnambulant and fragrant,
The artistic and awkward, the brilliant and bored,
The sensible and serious, the spoiled and the sad,
The self-righteous and the riotous,
The lazy and the learned, the kiss *** and the clown.
I study their faces to see when an eyebrow arches in contempt or confusion.
I listen, carefully, to what they are NOT saying about success.
I find a spark of brilliance in a sea of deficient-skills
And wear my cheeks out blowing on the embers,
Stoking the glow of competence that can
Burn. This. World. Down.
I hold my breath on weekends
Willing and waiting for these young men and women to
“Be safe and make good choices,”
And come back in one piece on Monday,
Because my concern is packed into the pockets
Of a hundred twenty backpacks,
And more than the homework and the essays,
I need my heart returned for class.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
a moment of reverie, i am somnambulant
after desperate winter, there is spring
aching in sunlight, gleaming like the buttons
on a chrome radio,
a house with its roof torn,
shattered toys spread through the yard
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 3:19 PM UTC
The thoughts are provoking
Your necessitous thoughts that you collect
In your professing of love
And the kindness shared in the petals of the rose of the beauty so eloquently
The impulse, thoughtfulness and pressing matters of *******
They rivet in the circumstance of the talk of life
You make the population with your coitus
The flower of your love in the spiritual innocence
There is no old time sake, I mean the drink
The risqueness by which you hold those flowers
Makes if I want the same symbolism in my rich life
And if I thought about the past, it would be thrown like a sculptor's hand
Sullied by the system of marrying two concepts
The rose and the somnambulant feeling of your love
Keeps my love awake without the water
I'm sleepwalking into your trustful hands
The kiss would wait for a time
Sealed by a rose
Unwatered, wilting
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 4:29 PM UTC
Most of my Lix spittle existence
found me figuratively
(primarily academically) adrift,
and malfunctioning blinker
analogous to a boat with
out an ankh (caws
away) aimlessly bobbing -
and drowning akin
to a besotted drinker
just out of rest to be
rescued by Mister Rinker
sea ming lee without
any hook, line and sinker
despite being gifted with
an above average thinker
from without, where two
myopic ocular
orbs did winker.
All thru academia
just barely passing grades
metaphorically
suffered from anemia,
and at my nadir,
thy prepubescent psyche
plummeted lovely bones
into grave state,
sans anorexia minus bulimia
mental health also linkedin
shot thru through with
healthy dose of dysthymia
cap (tinned em man hint mettle)
kept awake with insomnia
peppering cerebral
cortex with monomania
buzzfeed ding somnambulant
zombified condition
with a burning
desire toward pyromania
nsync with unmanageable
raging (red dee
and bull lush) testosterone
spawning satyromania
the above particularly
accentuated, and cresting
with accursed
triskaidekaphobia
most agonizing, when
orbitz around Earth
demarcated ten plus
on a Friday the thirteenth,
hence death be not proud
sought after utopia
pleading, longing, and hooping
if I Willoughby
able to sprinkle
cremated ashes across Xenia.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC