0500 December 30th, tachycardia

The rooster sounds reveille, but I am already awake
and swimming upwards from a dream of drowning
into bathwater-warm air, saturated with the night’s breaths.
At least in my dream the water was cool.

Sinking back, submerging again into sleep
the flickering in my chest, in my scalp, pulls me up.
Morning meds, a glance at the sky, and back to bed.
Nightmares are a side effect, supposedly,
but I long to sink back into dreams.

The rooster has woken the magpies, their songs flow –
silver streams, winding and twining through
a dawn of grey freshwater pearl,
leading me back to cool waters.

0800 27th Dec, vicarious snoozing

0800
Ginger-mutt is caught out, but he sees it is just me and knows there will be no roar of “get off the couch!”. The rules are different before anyone else is up.

those little slices of death…

…how I love them.

 

For the dVerse Monday quadrille challenge: “Sleepy times“. 

 

That moment of surrender,
when the struggle is given up.
That moment of relief,
when responsibility is abdicated,
and cares released like birds.
That moment of release
into a little slice of death.
I could live
just for that blessed moment
of falling
asleep.

 

I’ve always found the most supremely enjoyable time to fall asleep is when struggling to stay awake in a lecture or while watching a movie.  I haven’t yet fallen asleep in a meeting at work, but I’m looking forward to it when I’m closer to retirement. I plan so snore ostentatiously through many meetings until I’m offered a pre-retirement package.    

let the clouds roll in

Let the clouds roll in, shrinking the world down around us
to just this valley, tucked among the hills,
to just this clearing in the forest,
to just this house,

Sunday morning summer ha’sonnets I

The cicada
song fills the air,

morning haiku I

The windchime clatters,
thunder growls around the house –
winter come prowling.

The morning commute:
(hooray for isolation!)
bring laptop to bed.

Thanks Vixen of Verse, for the inspiration!   

Morphia (an aubade to sleep)

Of late she has taunted me,
teased
and played coy,

wind-rode (insomnia)

Wind-rode,
mind tethered,
I have missed the tide of sleep.
Dragged by anger,
and awash with dismay,
I rise
and walk,
trying to outpace
the disappointments
of the day.

adagio to allegro

there is no punctuation
between sleep and obligation
each thought flows
becoming the next
dolce
woodwind-mellow
breath-paced
before the pull
of the pizzicato day