[size=-1]It’s quiet in here, A welcome reprise, Like walking the sidewalks of Your neighborhood While everyone else lies sleeping, That extra time that’s solely yours, Made magical by the tint of moonlight And secret by being solitary. It’s quiet in here And words seem to be unnecessary encumbrances, Echoing in the emptiness, A pointless one-sided conversation; I shh them and stop the verbal translation. I am expansive, Open. The state is fragile; Don’t make me make words, I will answer in strange automation, Scary, the reflexive response; Mumbled words drifting from the vales of sleep. It is quiet in here, All the normal processes That hum to themselves all day, Producing desires and fears, Churning out observations and opinions, Have all been tied in together And are operating in harmony So all their reverberations are timed To cancel each other out My subconscious mind has claimed more Than it’s usual share of the machinery; It must have thought I was dreaming, Some signal derived from shifting brainwaves Caused by prolonged staring at the sky. A respite of thought; A dimming of lights upstairs As some huge hulking appliance in the basement Is plugged in and sucks up the juice And the ensuing darkness provides a surprising comfort. The boys downstairs are up to something, I can be sure of that; Whether some multifaceted creative concept Or a paradigm shift of outlook I will have to wait and see. All I can do for the time being is preserve This all too popable bubble; Keep my waters free of ripples And wipe my mirrors clean.[/size]
The dreamer’s blessing can become his curse. Jetlag caused by temporal anomalies; Living months to find minutes have passed. Holding experiences strange and poignant, Like oil, essential of life and ooze of death Sliding in rainbow blackness across water And prove as slippery when expression is attempted No one else will even try to understand. “It’s just some carbon.” You’re just some carbon, Secret triple six at the base of organics. The intrepid traveler of the soul Carries satchels full of stories That few have ears for And they can weigh him down. Dreamers feel their separateness Tainted by the touch of the other world Only among their fellows Are all the misunderstandings understood With sad and knowing nods. When one spends one’s nights sailing Those unmapped inner shores One’s waking hours can become the dream; Sometimes this one needs to wake up So this one can get some rest. A mare on the moon proves difficult to shed light on, Mares of the night are not easily broken And will buck their riders back into bed. When that sacred dreamless sleep That the hemlock may have held for Socrates Is withheld the mind can play tricks As borders become blurry. When the slings and arrows of the other world Strike the face or pierce the throat, One can wake up gasping for daylight And quiver alone in the darkness. When dreamy golden promises Turn to pyrite or pumice in the sun The waking world is found wanting And the stars unaligned.
Amazing expanses of solitude, insightful echos rippling, no longer seeking a response from the tranquil lake.
Both pieces have the total package, imagery that blossoms in the mind carrying an emotional impact with aesthetic artistry. A fine offering you've provided here, and I hope you share some more! Welcome to the forums! that’s what I call poetry… bravo!
U are truelly a poet. May the poems always be there to hear. From ur lips to mine. Peace&Love to u!:H
