PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

maybe it is still (just) sleepy time

 

 

 

 

once again,
we left the doors open
for someone—

 

 

 

 

it's the Western
or the Eastern light
peeking in

 

 

 

 

seeming again
to chase shadows
out of nowhere

 

 

 

 

 

but let me begin
the neverending
waking moment

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

because you do not

 

 

 

 

 

know yet—how lucky

 

 

 

 

 

 

you are

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

for not seeing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the aesthetically

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

pleasing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in every mists
that surround you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The boy slept for hours,

Like a little squirrel!

His mom woke him up thus,

He started to quarrel!

 

 

The boy stood up crying,

Then went to bed again!

Mom kept trying,

He started to snore then!

 

 

Mom left him alone,

 

With a little frown!

At times I tend to succumb to sleep,

Not for a long time,

Unlike Kumbhakarna or Ymir,

But for at least sometime.

 

 

Since constant work seems dull on occasion,

I wish I could fulfill my wish,

Like a King!

Yet reality is so selfish!

 

Thinking of the prolonged sleep is the only relief,

 

The mind gets yet like incessant pain stays the grief!

My dear, dear, fat cat,
you slept with me last night.

 

My dear, dear, fat cat,

you refused to let me sleep, last night.

 

My dear, dear, fat cat,

I am exausted from you last night.

 

My dear, dear, fat cat,

kneeding on my chest, last night,

I could barely breath.

 

My dear, dear, fat cat,

you may have been comfortable, last night,

but I really, truley was not!

 

My dear, dear, fat cat,

please let me sleep tonight!

Night brings weight that lays upon
the bed beside me, and despite me
it finds room to stretch and yawn
while I am forced to yield the sheets.

Day brings reason to wake and rise
and to ignore, or dare implore
the burden near to improvise
and share its many unmet needs.

When it speaks in muffled voice
and begs for love, or something of
substance that will come by choice,
I see it's just an echo.

A big, comfy chair
sits in the corner of the room,
I sat in this chair, as a child
smelling my mother's, sweet perfume.

My mother looked after me
the best way she knew how,
she clothed and fed me
I'm all grown up now.

She sits in her comfy chair
and stares out the window,
lets the heat of sun warm her
thankful, for what God has bestowed.

Mother is much older than I
I'm thankful for the life she gave,
teaching me the values of life
even though, we had to scrimp and save.

Her eyes become extremely weary
my heart she had been gently reaping,
she relaxes in her comfy chair
I'm quite, as she sits sleeping.

Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Dec.17/2011

Somewhere far it wasn't midnight, yet
here tonight, midnight seemed endless.
The open mouth of the window whispered:
a bird, confused and upset, chortling
and beating its head against the trunk of its tree.
An angered, yet impotent wind blew
and rapped the broad string of a flag
against its staff; the silence ruptured by its ringing.
The feline, ever-woken, pads a place to rest
and digs his stubbing claws into the bedding.
His widened-eye attention draws to shadows
cast by our befuddled bird who cries against the dawn.
Caught by light of moon and star, he flutters
and fights to shoo away what's ruffled him,
stirred him and in turn, forced me to come to terms
with the earliest morning I've seen in days.

There's a moon among the lightning clouds,
its light abreast the thunder.
I watch with sheeted wastelanders,
as still and vague as flickering shadows.
But there is no flame for their cascading,
nor a source for sight beyond the sky;
the moon a pocked and beaten widow,
whose fondest wish is to reflect
the sun's forgotten luminescence.
I watch with eyes all caked with sand
from a folklore fairy that I'd regarded
as nothing more than a tale to spin
underneath this lonely, battered moon.
I'd lend a hand to caress her cheek,
if she were not so far beyond me.

If I could sleep through all the days and nights,
Till the sun burst open like a cheap beach ball
And spewed hot death that shone like fairy lights;

 

If I could sleep until the end of time,
Immersed in honeysuckle ignorance
And wake to find an I. O. U. from God
Post-it noted to my droopy eyelid;

 

If I could sleep till love no longer meant pain,
And the dreams I dreamt jumped ship from my head,
With that unbridled joy so fearful to name;

 

If I could sleep past all man’s waking
Knowingness, and find at the end myself
Untouched, as pristine as the Swiss Alps,
For still in my sleepy dreams I dreamt of sleep;

 

Why, then I would tumble through the darkling cracks.
I would answer sleep’s sweet carrion call.
For,
If I could sleep, and hope for nothing more,
Then would I have my empty dreams fulfilled.