Tag Archives: night

Day 4 – Unfocused,

let the layers fall away,
through the world goes our gaze,
penetrating film and cell alike,
and to the onion say we, dry
your eyes lest candles ignite,
sudden through deep midnight.
Impossible diamonds cascade
and, though we grasp, dreams fade.

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Never look at your phone in the middle of the night. Never. I had a dream, and the minute that screen blinded me, I forgot it. 😦

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Good Night – Day 6

For some reason, I can’t write a poem about the morning
Perhaps I’m trying too hard, perhaps
I don’t know the morning-time well enough to write about it.
Being of the night owl kind, I haven’t seen a sunrise in years.
Better for me, I think, to write the wee hours,
the single digits, the silent dark of sleeplessness.
Yes, this is the time I know best, when the world is asleep.
I prowl the night, a shadow among shadows.
These small, quiet hours are my domain, my freedom..
I write, and laugh, and serenade the stars.
A good night to be alive, a good night to be an owl.


I’ve been trying to write a sunrise/morning poem all day (for the NaPo blog prompt), and it just wasn’t working. Finally, I just ranted about it, then turned that into a poem. Five minutes ago. I barely edited and it’s pretty lame, but believe me, it’s better than the sunrise poem. Enjoy 😀

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If I could Dream

If I could dream
I would only be clouds,
wandering, drifting,
nothing but the wind to hold me up,
sliding slow over mountains,
mourning their small and ancient deaths with my rain.
I’d get lost, and call it an adventure.
I wouldn’t be afraid.
Darkness would not dissolve me,
for moonlight makes out of me blue rainbows
adorned with stars, falling with dew,
I would rise with
tendrils of mist to wrap around you,
carry you off, up, and away.

Come with me, take a sip,
it’s only a little dream,
sweeter than nectar, decadent, honeyed.
Do not donate all your sense to the daze.
What does sunshine know in silence
that starlit whispers don’t reveal in the dark?
Come, dearest, dream with me,
we’ll explore new lands together.

Did you know? Only clouds can see ahead.
They’re so high up on dreaming,
they know the end of the path.
That’s why they weep
and cast rainbows in our way.
That’s why they throw out lightning
and crash about their thunder.
If I knew you wandered ever closer to the edge –
how could I not do the same?

Come, then, before all that,
dream away the empty days.
Glide like a mist through dew-heavy grass,
like you know, wherever you go
it’s worth your weary, scarred up soul.
Take only a sip, don’t get there too quick;
I wouldn’t lose you yet, darling.
Have your pick from dreams of cotton.
Some of them are sweet,
some bitter like coffee at the bottom.
I prefer the spicy ones,
with twilight purple flavors.

What next, you ask?
Well, think like a cloud,
like a wisp of water-breath.
Breathe in, rise up on your toes,
Reach up for the moon,
and let go of the earth –
Dearest, come back, not that far,
we’re not astronauts. Not yet.

Still, we fly, into felted cloudy sky,
shedding laughter like stars upon
the drowsy dazed below, who never thought to drift.
We strike tiny lightnings, storming our brains.
We dance through moon-made rainbows
above mysterious, dew strewn lands,
but we are never lost.

Midnight breezes bear us up, bring us back,
lay us down, kiss our brow,
‘til safe and sound in the dark we drowse.
Those adventures we dreamed
forgotten upon waking,
dissolved like a mist in the sun.

Thought I’d post this to get the blog rolling again, so to speak. I want to sort of build up to April (NaPoWriMo), and also post things about my novel here and there. We’ll see what happens. Anyway, this poem’s a little longer than I meant it to be, so who knows, I might go back and edit out half of it later. For now though, I like it too much to do that, so here it is in all its wordy weirdness. Enjoy 😉

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Not Alive?

What do you mean?
He’s just as alive as a mother’s lullaby,
or a warm and pleasant dream.

For twenty years she’s washed the top of his head
with her kisses, and with her tears.
He’s been protecting her for longer than
she can remember.
Comforting this lonely child through
nightmares and strange shapes in the dark.

This old dog, he used to be fluffy and tan,
now he’s all matted, a darker mud brown
and one of his eyes is always winking at her.
He’s got a ragged yellow collar,
a worn black nose, and threadbare paws.
His body is unevenly stuffed from
a lifetime of being squeezed round the middle.

All those years rolling over on him,
pushing him out of the bed,
using him as a pillow,
throwing him across the room.
He endured it all.
He’s had a few stitches here and there,
a few close calls, a few repairs
while she peeked nervously over Mommy’s shoulder
at the delicate operation.

But he is alive,
like a secret lingering in the dark
like the familiar smell of quiet midnight memories
like a child’s musings and ideas growing up with her
until they become distilled emotion, coursing
deeper than a night full of stars.

More simply, he is alive
because he listened when she had
no one else to whisper her poetry to.
His every nook and cranny of raggedy fluff is full
to the brim with a child’s wonderings.

And he is alive
because he dried her tears with his ears,
because he protected her from the scary dreams,
because he was always, always there,
And because she loves him.

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