I am awoken (What now?!)
by roaring outside
rasping, growling, rushing creature.
Oh, damn, I think, as I return to sleep.
The plow.
poem-Wednesday September 13, 2017
I woke to my alarm’s
jaunty greeting, lay lulled, wondering where you were,
until I found the sense of you, pressed against my shoulder blades.
I lay, enjoying the warm weight of you,
until the alarm started up again.
It meant it this time.
So, regretfully,
I pulled away from you,
buried my face in your warm belly,
said farewell as you stretched and smiled up at me.
Wednesday will be a long day apart,
but I will return,
and you’ll be waiting,
eagerly.
.
.
.
(a little homage to my canine companion!)
poem-dream warrior February 10, 2016
You were fighting
a wooly mammoth
with a light saber.
plainly losing the battle.
Your cries drew me to consciousness,
so I saved you
with a waking shake.
Never let it be said,
I haven’t got your back.
poem-dreaming April 1, 2015
Last night,
I wept over your broken body,
watching bloody pools expanding
beneath your feet.
Today,
you needed seven anti-anxiety pills
and still paced and cried,
your heart throbbing.
Were we dreaming side by side?
Did you see my vision?
Were you scared by day
from mother dreams
of death?
.
.
.
(The dog again. Sigh. Put him in the Gentle Leader halter after dinner and he calmed down. Might try that during the day tomorrow.)
poem-deep March 31, 2015
He sleeps
breathing deeply,
heavily,
his back steaming
against hers.
She is wishing for his embrace,
longing for his arm across her breast,
his breath tangling in her hair.
She wishes.
He sighs with weighty somulance
then rolls away, settling on the far edge,
of the king sized bed.
His breath comes in rumbling groans and mutterings.
She sighs,
wishing for his embrace
but finding sleep’s instead.
poem-flipped January 23, 2015
You need a silent rest
and I need recumbency.
I find a peaceful place,
I recline and read and write
throughout the night,
come to bed at dawn
to greet you as you rise.
But office workers
call at nine, nine thirty, ten
and so with blurry eyes I
pretend lucidity,
then fall back to sleep
until you return at two.
My head and ankle
have schedules
out of sync with offices,
though I’m in tuneful counterpoint
with you.
poem- companionable November 29, 2014
I wake to
the gentle snores
and the warm back
of my canine companion,
whose black eyes blink
and sleepy tail thumps once
as I caress his white wooly side.
poem-writers’ bed November 16, 2014
The poetry is loud tonight,
smashing and crashing through
synapses of my neocortex,
drowning the bovine bellows
of my bedmate.
Short stories are shouting.
Poetry is proclaiming itself.
Words are wailing.
They are insistent
in the seams between sleep,
and will not quieten
until I write them down.
.
.
(This is post 1717 on the blog. It was very loudly proclaiming itself when I tried to go to bed last night, and would not stop until I got out my little book kept beside the bed, turned on the little book light, and wrote down the essentials). Do you have this problem, too?
poem-missing August 7, 2014
Three thirty-three in the morning
I awaken, drenched in sweat.
I turn on the fan,
waiting for sleep to return
wishing that you were beside me.
poem-the switch August 6, 2014
Trying to type
Fingers feel
unattached to hand.
Eyes blur.
Stomach rocks
Head dull.
It’s so hard
to rejoin
the diurnal world
.
.
Thursday I have to be in a workshop at 8 a.m. my time. I need to be alert and absorbing information. I’ve been going to bed between 4 and 7 a.m. the last few nights, working through the greatest heat. My plan was to start last Friday, moving back an hour each night, but it didn’t work. It was 4:30 on Sunday and 3:30 on Mon, despite pharmaceutical aid. (I can stay up for hours after sleeping pill. My body relaxes, but my brain just keeps plugging along…) Wish me luck getting to bed at midnight tonight, with all my packing and preparations in order!
Yawn
Shawn L. Bird 