Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Onoma Jun 2012
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).
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.
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.
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2013
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
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 .
Someone said I should lighten up!!
Clay Face Dec 2021
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.
Jonathan Witte Oct 2016
I

She’s sleepwalking again,
my nine-year-old daughter,
who shares the bedroom
with her sister down the hall.
She’s kicked off the covers
and wandered downstairs,
somnambulant, her bare feet
moving as though in a dream
across the kitchen’s linoleum
floor to the back of the house.
The porch door smacks shut—
a gunshot—and she is gone.

For a time, I watch her from
the open bedroom window.
Her diaphanous nightgown
absorbs August moonlight.
She steps slowly, a pale flame
floating across the back field,
the wiregrass up to her knees,
avoiding a copse of redbuds,
skirting shrubs and stones.

When her small figure succumbs
to shadow at the edge of the trees,
I put on my bathrobe and follow.

II

At first, she is lost to me.
I break into a delirious run,
scratched on my cheek
by a redbud branch.
Reaching the tree line,
I see her standing still,
shoulders stooped,
a luminous cattail
bending down.

She hovers above a sleeping fawn,
the warm bundle curled at her feet.
I contemplate the white spots
scattered on fur, thinking, velvet stars.

But when I place a hand
on my daughter’s shoulder
I see blood flowing fresh
from the doe’s abdomen;
red entrails slipping out,
pooling on pine needles.
Stepping closer, I remember a moment
earlier that evening: a jar of preserves
spilled carelessly on the kitchen’s stone counter,
the soft dishtowel soaking scarlet in my hand.

At the edge of the creek, a second doe
watches us with opaque, joyless eyes.
My daughter puts her finger to her lips;
the doe tenses, blinks, and bolts away.

I lift my daughter and carry her carefully
home, her head buried in my shoulder,
blades of grass clinging to my bare feet.

III

My daughters' room:
holding her in weak arms, poised
to lay her on top bedcovers,
I notice her sister’s empty bed,
neatly made, the blankets smooth
and tight across the mattress.

An anemic moth bangs
against the window pane.

The light flicks on and suddenly
I am awake, remembering all of it:
the dry diagnosis, the slow whir
of hospital machines, the smell
of old flowers, and somewhere
in my daughter’s stomach,
the cruel mathematics
of cells metastasizing.

My wife stands in the doorway,
her hand on the light switch.
My arms are empty. I gaze
down and see our daughter
nestled under covers,
breathing softly, asleep.

I see the pale white skin of my clean bare feet.

You’re sleepwalking again, my wife says.
She touches my unsullied cheek, hooks her
fingers through mine, and shuffles me down
the hall to bed. Head sinking into the pillow,
I gaze out the open bedroom window and weep.

The moonless sky cradles its constellations:
bright grains of salt scattered on soapstone;
my hand trembles, unable to wipe them away.
Brian O'blivion Aug 2013
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
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..
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
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
A H Butler Nov 2017
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.
© A H Butler
PK Wakefield Aug 2010
A.

afore the blush of placid cheeks is A
proffered crop of luscious fancies
limpid groves of silken corpses (mingle
deftly apathetic death) maligned posies
stinking of bloodless roses; their amorphous skin
blotting dusty shelves pages tumble
briefly sleeping verses profess loving tongues
rasping effigies unlike the clamour truly divine
milk of feminine ambrosia

grotesque the statued poses, a love writ tawny
embers litter blossoms strongly and indolent
they sparingly divided, ample thighs crossed,
leak no pleasure (but taunting accurate plush
). so to luna breathe in the excellent pools of
lipless fantasies piled in ardent devotion about
roots deeply sensual aphorisms. and metastasize a
plaguing remedy breeding steadily in residence
my cracking synaptic core. every thought enamored
to her cause

2.

a symposium of muscle more perfect never did
reside in flesh as well so as this splinter static
in repose sighing hues unsightly, a rainbow of burning
sin blisters the empty air between our pumping
artifices;  CHAOS: a tumble of dry nothing spits
from an oral sanctum in ownership of I and numbly
splitting vocal cracks i dare pray to evoke your
crass symptom of beauty, in every hillock it doth lash
your frame, to reside on me its angles.

cHEW the gristle of my fatty words, if be the flavor
to the liking of your buds may i lay into your
frame the vestige of mine will and blossom about your pearl, hid
in denim armor, my mouth in every effort of its loyalty
to the sanctuary of thy splendid yoke. and yoked to thy
the chain of my hips. weaving dainty clouds of "yes"
from the soft cavern of your prim voice?

*

Froth, the sea, my lady in waves of festering verbs
a shore, mine, they do land in manifolds of colour
loving every cut of these sharp enunciations; some claret,
i do well from the clefts. cells reticent of the screams brewing
in their nuclei, it's an ideal clove shod in scents somnambulant.
a territory of my libations to your flexing presence,
may always be you by the side of i

but waits the coldest sleep and the heaps of soil
generous on our boxes; so shall i make to you an offer
of my life. in hope, thou shalt accept its filigree and
decree it upon your soul as have i so we may be
in eternal blessed sickness of our amorous lace
bands fingers circling, do denote the promise of
my hands.


                 TO THEE. TO THY. me
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.
PK Wakefield Dec 2011
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
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
-----------------------------------------------------­------
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.

Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart snarky sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates same species sansSnoopy) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.

Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.

SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.

Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.

Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps.

Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.





Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.
Randy Lee May 2016
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...
“Query”
from a word miner non-trumpeting
Beatle browed quarry man.

One emailing digital commoner bemoans assiduous,
zealously yearning xing worthy values undergirding
the storied renown quintessential peaceable operation
nations marvel lately kindling justice,
institutionalizing hope, gentility, freedom, equality.

Dummkopf Donald Count Drake
Hula iz destroying cradle,
where forefathers/mothers begot
America. He shows no demonstrable diplomacy
DURST donning duplicitous damning dingbat drive.

THUS...SPAKE
ZARATHUSTRA GAVE ME THE GREEN LIGHT

I call out President Trump blitzing, donning,
and flagrantly hoisting his arrested development
proof positive he lacks the acuity,
diplomacy, and generosity to invite kosher
or Goyim mandates.

As an anonymously, devilishly,
grouchy voluntary member
(as well a deplorable basket case)
of the one man literary duh vice squad keeping
a mostly straight and true reputation for Hilary Clinton
(versus his claim of her baseless crookedness,

she evinces qualities immediately evident
asper an old gnarled hickory stick), I will
stick tommy figurative guns in an
attempt to staunch the figurative bloodletting heaped
upon admirable Democratic constituents.

Concomitant with this near impossible mission
will be my unbiased opinion, that our FAKE
commander in chief aspires to abrogate,
denominate, and generate demonstrable gimcrackery,

invidious kleptocracy, and incorporate
questionable statecraft.
Analogous to an old chestnut tree apothegm
(well rooted to create self serving,
vassal hating (viz vacillating),
retreating, and re: tweeting

from conscionable, fashionable,
and inimitable laudable official,
regal unequivocal x all did (re: exalted)
gratuitously justifiable management,

this citizen banker does hint intend zealous altercation,
but bestir commonwealth, dutifully engineering
fairness, given hover into jaundiced keeper
LivingSocial lee, man hooverring
opprobrious presidential qualities!

Pointblank obnoxious
quintessential recklessness, subpar,
tacitly ubiquitous voracious
wickedness, xing yawping zapping,
and brokering capitalistic
demagoguery constitute
just tip of the metaphorical iceberg.

His blatant, downright
**** the **** the torpedoes
unleashed viciousness woebegone
lake luster personal gain
to shore up claque king coterie
of family, friends and wu tang
clan, wracked worst world wide

White House den of thieves, which wake
formerly somnambulant populace
to the utter void of requisite skill
unfairly acquired via host
of apprentice television show.

The terrestrial terrain teams now
teems with thuggery, skullduggery,
and raggedy quality people opposing necessary,
manifold linkedin kneads jettisoning important
human goods fleecing essential democracy,

compromising basis authors
of Declaration of Independence, and
framers of Constitution rang the
bell of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.

The zero sum game trampling, traipsing traducing
basic birthrights botched, bumbled, and blithely
desecrated, via tattle tale telling,
tee totaling, trumpeting tyro
leaves tracks of depravity, gallimaufry.
Thus, (in my humble viewpoint), this mister Donald

(meister usurper  power monger meanwhile iz
***** kneal son nilly, higgledy piggledy, and
wantonly indiscriminately sans,
helter skelter lapsing into  
figurative seat of his back *** while
steam rolling, and letting swing
the wrecking ball like a Golem

howling, jabbering, snapchatting on the loose.
Trademark bully tactics trumpet
his abominable, execrable,
and irascible back *** steam roller
tactics to divert attention,

whence he plopped his paws into as
many profitable, questionable,
and reprehensible theatrics to offset
the mounting evidence of his nepotism
oozing pew tin utterances bring

cataclysm Cat toss trophy at mice elf
and doorstep of average American, who seem to
cower, fawn, and grant high jacking
identity guard, which crass
flagrant indiscretion inflict opposition
to progressive quests.
Wk kortas Aug 2017
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.
PK Wakefield Dec 2014
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
e Jul 2014
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.
dlp Dec 2020
Somnambulant visions persist,
despite a wakeful vigilance.

A splendid foolishness bursts forth.

The rich-red flowing fire of neglected and abandoned desire,
ignites the mind to far flung spasms.

Primal monsters grunt and screech.

Vertical walls of wet stone echo from the abyss,
the drunken violence of a tortured soul.

Yet the cool liquids of aquamarine,
azure blue and malachite green
can slake the thirst and silence the scream.

Then put to rest the somnambulant dream
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.
As if in a decades long
     somnambulant trance
     for majority of years
     I finally awoke,
three score minus
     one orbitz tracked 'round el sol
     by this human drone,
a custom made incognito

     stitched while in utero
     yeah... my birthday suit mask
     disguised this bloke
yet plainly visible, aye donned
     a permanent cloak
always fitted me skin
     tight easily permitting
     ingress and egress okey doak

majority of mein kempf
     ambivalent about (no...no...no...
     despised) self as
     apathetic behavior did evoke,
yet slip out from
     under the Harris tweed,
     Scottish door Matt,
     parental tender caring folk

now, such indifference,
     whether dead or alive,
     tummy this thinking haint write
especially nearing quotidian,
     the terminus twilight
     of existential parabola
     fifty nine submucous cleft palate
     nasal note more'n slight

     chalked up to biochemically, right
     hermetically, and neurologically quite,
though not profoundly disabled,
     a riddled quirky
     ******-social plight,
(cultivating an unhealthy
     absent self esteem inferior complex)
     I exhibited half

     hearted feeble feints
     to muster willpower morning till night
oft times nobody home,
     and nary boot faint light
doth shine on me
     (feeling comfortably numb),
     a puny white knight er
     rather pawn on chess

     board of life with 20/20 insight
while standing at a paltry
     just shy of seventy
     two inches in height
shortchanging latitudinal longitudinal
     maximum parameters to attain
but more critically, detrimentally,
     emotionally constitutes current bane

analogous to Atlas
     hold the world
     did more than force him to crane
his neck, but imposed
     a global estuarial drain
as all the seven seas underwent
     gravitational pull that's
     the best aye can explain

oh...but such fiction a mythological sling
shot across the bow civilization
     the metaphorical resonance
     pertains to me, and doth ring
real asper millstone over bearing
worth repeating here,
no matter mentioned in previous poems
     bitterness of mine despairingly cathartically airing.
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
effie ebbtide Apr 2018
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.
i haven't been on this site in like, a year.
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.
Chip Buchanan Sep 2017
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
ca. 1994
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
to anonymous readers March 22nd, 2022
(blustery and chilly Tuesday)
reminiscing about mein kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
more'n three plus decades
plus three extra orbitz
around mister sun already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" nothing
to thumb button nose at

think hitch hiker pose
of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly
refashioned, repurposed and revised
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.

— The End —