"somnolence" poems
Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother.
The insects are scant, skinny.
In these palustral homes we only
Croak and wither.
Mornings dissipate in somnolence.
The sun brightens tardily
Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us.
he fen sickens.
Frost drops even the spider. Clearly
The genius of plenitude
Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin
Lamentably.
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Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
the bottle twists
glass falls in drifts
and air parts like flesh
there’s a terror beneath this city
trucks enter from out of town and shake the power lines
passing without pause
sometimes birds gather for days
chirps grow exponentially
before tailing into silence;
heather and brimstone
little bodies roll to the edges
and burst on the streets in red regalia
a somnolence keeps the city forgetful
time flows in fits
a streetlamp; a raven; ten gravestones
it all runs without moving
vessels dilate
hands hold themselves
there’s nothing to breathe with
an empty chalice, turned on the hour grants
heaving clenching writhing
an ocean of rust
bulb shatters, blood spills out her
mouth cave head turn faith
the world remakes itself
**********
the colour of sunflowers
bicycle chains
thirst
colonialism
wet paint
emptiness over emptiness
act without agent
lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack
peel the flesh and find flesh
always more flesh
don’t stop they know better
chirp chirp chirp
turn
exit
substance
purpose
nothing
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
Moon in Scorpio.
Incurable somnolence.
Plutonian pranks.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
It is true that the rivers went nosing like swine,
Tugging at banks, until they seemed
Bland belly-sounds in somnolent troughs,
That the air was heavy with the breath of these swine,
The breath of turgid summer, and
Heavy with thunder's rattapallax,
That the man who erected this cabin, planted
This field, and tended it awhile,
Knew not the quirks of imagery,
That the hours of his indolent, arid days,
Grotesque with this nosing in banks,
This somnolence and rattapallax,
Seemed to suckle themselves on his arid being,
As the swine-like rivers suckled themselves
While they went seaward to the sea-mouths.
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I've never been startled to surprise
seeing a man riding a six-wheel bicycle on my side
gazing up his smile in full plain sight
so subtle like pinwheels on summer breeze.
Cheese! says the lens-man from southeast
a harmonious melody led me round and round
till horses jump out of the merry-go-round
so as teacups swirling with no succulent tea
but are found to be couples squirming in obscurity.
Surprised! that no one tend to flee
for nights fright of lustful fantasies
covered their state of subtle ease.
Oh Fun, Fun, Fun, when there seems to be no sun
and I felt heedless to ponder
the fact that I endlessly Run, Run, Run
in far out yonder
then oops! ouch!
I howled like thunder.
Deluded, how I fell on the ground
when music suddenly lost it sound
colors I've knew were out of bound
and haze of somnolence was all I found.
Where could I be?
Surprise!
He shrieked
Who could it be?
Unexpectedly he's someone I could not see!
yet only I can hear.
A nowhere man whom greeted with sigh
though I've never seen him in beacon's of light
for he always knows how to welter my sight
his eerie voice orchestrates the eventide
shocked me with so much surprise.
for his eyes lilt like fireflies.
He given me a euphony, took away the agony
and hid me somewhere I can't even grasp
how many he had taken away to his untrodden land
to turn me as one of them, his very own nowhere man.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
The desert is not the grave of the sea.
The heaving reign of pharaohed seas,
Rule in bloodline of palm wine and embalming fluid of brine.
The tides are their mummified lips,
Whispering the coming forth of spells eternally to the sky.
All goddesses, like shawled Isis, in lamentations of hair
And past-wept somnolence for Egypt,
Lie across the heart-bound murmur of waters
From their dead kings and the kingly divine, Amun-Ra,
Whose bird-starred eyes fill the canopic jar of the cosmos.
The sea is the grave of the desert.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
SINGING TO THE CARNIVAL
By Angela Turner
I’ve been singing
To the carnival
Ever since you can remember
Sometimes
With the stage fright
Of opening night
Trembling just beneath
The skin
Sometimes
Like the well worn
Paths of a sonnet.
Rote, familiar,
warm
And Lately,
As the ballad of sunset
Sends the lights to whirring
And the music to
Jar the night ‘s somnolence
Beginnings unfurl in you
Like the big top.
Death defying feats
Of the marvelous Maloneys,
Or tigers
Passing through the flame
And the stadium is seated
With row after row of
Possibilities,
I sing
With the belabored breath
Of a hospice
Knowing this chance could
Be my last
For all the new
And beautiful things
That will astound and amaze
Have designed the tent
For the next town
And their tunes
Require a different song
Than this singer
And her worn out notes
That grow the bones
building the man.
So just one last time
Let the old girl sing
To the head on pillow
And blankets all tucked in
Around the carnival in you.
That was once in me
Before I was amazed and astounded
By this life and all that awaits
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Bronzed blade, raised in ire, abreast,
Foresquare to thy foe, attest,
Norseman with thy flowing hair
Howling, teeth bare challenge, there!
Somnolence now thy time of quiet
Quiescence to the moments write
Captured, soft, her sweetest smile
In rendering thy pain, worthwhile?
Wherever whence, thee came to know
Beyond high fjord, through iceberg flow,
From battle ground of dire plight
To reminiscence in the night?
Know thy words be justly spent,
Thy coiled emotions caste and vent....
Now worn as Talisman by we
Who greive this passing hour of thee.
[email protected]
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 12:48 AM UTC
Flashes of insight igniting at midnight
Honoring magnified clues within a myriad of hues - mesmerizing formations revealed through iridescent illustrations
Silent but eloquent symbols of nature; I marvel at the extraordinary revelations throughout this atmosphere of sheer opulence while itching in the seams of somnolence.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
All of us
in various stages of dying and and being born
The mom yet to be,
a four month swell behind her shirt
Dad of 2, trailing behind
tiredness and joy mixed in his eyes.
Girls wrapped in on one another
knots of noise. Giggles and insecurity
Men put together
like showrooms from Ikea
Efficacious, nothing warm like home.
Wives, squint nosed
Clack snap of boots hard against
cultured marble
faces of fluorescent light
Each one placed in retail
somnolence
drug forward in a steady gait
toward that something
We each to his own way
in this place of quick promise
I look to see with only
ambiguity looking back
The old,
moss sitting on hard booth seats
as if being near life
will lead them back to life again
Hats and twill
scarves and purple. Semblance
of then and not again
Then me
a smooth stone washed over
by this flow of person-hood
Unseen but shaped by every current
bearing witness
cocooned in the falsehood of
objectivity.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Now and then
I take a nap
A nap on the couch
It’s that or pretend I am paying attention.
To accelerate a reluctant somnolence
I return to another house
A house very far away
And in the past
Where my mother is busy in the kitchen.
While I doze off my jet lag in the closet she calls a bedroom
The almost rhythmic sounds of her kitchen are a sleeping draught
A draught so powerful no ****** competes.
I wonder now if she knew.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
That jazzy voice you handle from your lips
Is to be handled carefully. Well, it happened already
You took away every bit of somnolence from me
Suddenly emptied me, left me as a cunning child
Naughty enough to deprive himself of a night lavish with dreams,
To escape the sleep routine under the bed sheets.
And then your phonecall,
Breaking fragile silence like a hammer smashing glass,
I followed you beyond the ringing,
Discovered a trembling annoying voice.
You crafty devil, you planned my unsleeping all along,
Filling my ear with problems of all kinds and sorts
And the endless unsatisfactions of a life you never lived as yours.
So tired as hell, the phone hitting the wall,
Your voice remains, some sort of restlessness
Invades me and keeps me going all night long.
I shave, I’ve got but two hours before all cuts are healed
I put my sleep back together
Shard by shard,
Rebuild its slow glassy reflection.
My sleep is after all
A mirror which doesn’t often work.
The daylight knocks already
The nighttime fades behind me
No sleep tonight for poor devils or for me,
No sleep tonight at all.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
The first glint of your existence,
like the creation of a star,
is the shimmering hope on my path.
Guiding me home;
a stoic guardian
amidst the terrors of the night.
Lo! A greater foe lights anew!
It shines upon your mighty steel.
The striking spark of light on your armor.
The battle does not last long,
and you are defeated by dawn’s sword
breaking over the horizon.
A shadow becomes your prison.
You, brave street lamp
are cast away at the dawn
into somnolence each day.
I am accustomed to your safety,
and I do not easily part with thee.
Yet, I know you will live
to reign over night once more.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
Ah Poesy
Why don't you Mosey
on down
Fill this sleepless space
behind my yawning
face
Some tasty line
to hasten
my decline
Into somnolence
I imagine
sublime
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 2:48 AM UTC
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
At the end of a tunnel, you are spent, dried and weary,
Waiting for the wave, the aubade to come wash you away;
You are finalized and resolute in realization,
In somnolence, you epiphanize, you tabula rasa, you blanken
your slate to transcendence!
But
At the end of a tunnel, you revert to the beginning.
You become inversely existential, and
you rush to drive again, passing foot to gear, go!
Meter ramming, miles against minutes or so...
Cruise,
Slow, Insistent, salacious, caressing the wheel, just you,
And the road, not wide open, just
Close, or, variable, toying, experimenting , with
The road, just it, and you; In the darkness, swerve,
Quick! Stop...gauge...go! Learning tread marks, Scorching,
This is
My road, my car, no cold-stone truckers,
Just me, and the dragon, Self consuming.
Solipsistic ideals become obsolete.
Consciousness becomes archaic and Freudian
Reins,
Its Id superbly egotistical, an ephemeral presence
Of an amorphous reality, erected with pillars.
At the end of a tunnel,
You become resurrection.
You become tautological.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Another night has breezed me by
Too much sleep has gone in haste
Somnolence is what makes me drink coffee sometimes
Oh oh oh,
Instead, take me where the monsters once lurked
In between the crevices of my old crypt that remains inert
I want to take a peek of the catacombs
Where I sometimes visit in my sleep
Oh ** **
Where's that sense of humor I once had?
Couldn't speak now
With the tongue I once had
I'm enshrouded in nostalgia
With silly monsters caught in between
Stuck in my daydreams
I can't help but imagine the past
Oh oh oh,
That was my wonderful life
Little kids on the pave
Laughing and falling on their knees
And flippant little fingers making a scene
If I could only spring back
To the time when my essence was clean
Back to the home where I pestered the words
"Please, please, please"
To the point of my content, when I could no longer protest
When I finally drowned asleep in the summer breeze
Cheers to my childhood days
And to the housebound trance of old school lullabies
Where my loving family of special hearts
Defended the tears I cried
Oh, oh, oh
Provoked by silly monsters I waved goodbye
Never did I think
I would miss so very much
Those glorious days of when my silly monsters
Brought mischief and thrived
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
i waken vaguely
to hear the raindrops
dripping, dripping, dripping
in my somnolence
i understand
what they are saying
i see everything
in a different light
i do not think
i just know
i cannot say
there are no words
just sounds
dripping, dripping, dripping
I drift back to sleep
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
In this quiet corner of Cleethorpes
Serene somnolence soothes my soul.
Growling dark clouds make it feel like night
Lying above the whispering mists
On this dank dreary day,
Though mild this year.
The sun rose at eight fourteen
And will fall at three forty two.
For it is indeed the shortest day
Of 2017.
Tomorrow will be
A whole Two Seconds
Longer.
So by around the twenty fifth
Of this December month
We’ll reach that time
When the Ancients saw it getting lighter
And chose to Celebrate
Big Time.
For so the Festive Season
Began
All to Enjoy.
Many a religion has latched onto this
Annual Event.
So it’s Party Time
All over the World.
Time to reflect
And turn our eyes
Towards the Future.
Hoping again for Peace and Love
To Everyone.
Paul Butters
© PB 21\12\2017.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
Doring — not much has changed since
you last spoke.
the children are still deep in the mud.
the bellhouse at Poblacion still rings
when it is 5 PM and the ubiquitous bazaar
sit on the cornerstones.
however, when the white angels began
latticing you to contraptions,
the furling scent of your homely perfume
has gone dithering. grandpa Mario's
revolver is somewhere hidden wreathed
under a wrestle of things we do not
use anymore — lottery tickets ( 4 AM, grandpa would fall asleep reeking of
ale as the lady announces frail luck
over the somnolence. kitchenware longs
for the ****** of your tremulous hands. the Lazy Susan is attended by only a bundle of rotten bananas, Mario's old
nauticals: whiskey bottles, scotch, goblets, unrest of glasses. we still
buy pandesal near Beng's piano maestro.)
nothing much has changed since you
last spoke. mother held your hands longer than imagined trill of Maya outside tightwire. it didn't flood in the swelter of
the cataclysm — years ago it was deathly silent when you were sitting on the rocking chair waiting for the flood to subside, your grandchildren laying cold on the aged floorboard, rescued by
zigzag of newspapers. it was the lightest
of darknesses. nothing much has changed
since you last spoke and in your
silence we heard the most immense of
voices. the streets remain pockmarked.
ocher pots festooned by wily flowers,
stems of hope. your hands tryingly gripping whatever
was brought to their splendidness
looked like forever smiles.
Doring — the nights are fuller,
my sweet old etcetera of chores.
we all lay quietly in the mud for now.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Lost in the somnolence of his solitude
The poet’s hell
Lies in the heaven of his existence
That he cannot see
With eyes closed
And back turned towards the future:
His game composed through endless hindsight,
But no sight for what is here…
But I am here…
And I looked into his eyes…
Lost
In his dualities and questions,
Frustrated with only heaven’s silence for an answer,
He vowed to fill the world with words,
But still he stopped to listen to mine:
“Do not feel the guilt of change
As words seem to lose their meaning
As they fly away from your tongue
And drift into the sky.
In this moment together
Do not fight time as it moves forward
And wait forever for abstract completion,
That escapes us even now
As we dance
Into the present’s dawn.”
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
Light cracks open the comfort of somnolence,
Eyes are prised apart with Thought For The Day
As distributed by Pure DAB, words, in part,
Punctuate consciousness; something about foregiveness,
Some parable or other from some comfortable priest
Trying to be comforting to those
That will be work bound in short order,
That will be departing with a packed kiss
With their lunch. I throw off the double duvet
And try to distract thoughts from single-mindedly
Reiterating her recent cruelties, or from pondering
Upon my secluded anger which breaks my peace,
Hunger will dissipate this tendency as I crave to break my fast,
Consider the longs days stretch without hint of incentive.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
the lament of fixity
gazes on stone, its death-fires encircle
the slender body of the doting Sun.
this is our time spent again
when our days obdurately say
that our inimitable skies smell of
wet willow—
our time has come to sleep.
the soggy horizon closes its eyes
and darkness enters like a thief.
aureoles criss-cross into
touchable delineations.
i am closer to the Earth than I was once
before you, bared to profile
like a fruit pared by your teeth.
what awaits in the gleam of one's
waking is the fruitage of nondescript music flowering in my ear:
the curved entry of your breath,
receiving it, my ear's bell,
shaking the cathedrals and by the pews
of my somnolence, a trespassing whirlwind, a dewdrop, trickles of flame.
are there lips, with there power enough
left to clench in their growing?
this den of such tender love,
when i roar ardently dressed as
an admiral in sleep's sea,
i, mounting the waves of your body,
dream of lions.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC