What a long hot year here,
the cactus are wilting.
Cement is getting soft,
birds in the trees are cooked.
Long hot days with hot nights,
must stop for everyone.
Let It Rain-cool rain now.
Midnight Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
I.
A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.
To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.
But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.
II.
So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills'
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.
But I will not sleep this night, nor any …
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your tear-drenched pillowcase?
"Midnight Lullaby" has been set to music by the award-winning New Zealand composer David Hamilton.
Keywords/Tags: lullaby, lullabies, music, musical, song, child, children, childhood, baby, babies, midnight, night, rhythm, sleep
Soft is the call of the night
She whispers to me in the rustle
of leaves ‘neath an ancient breeze
For time runs headlong into the chasm
~ lunging at moments already passed
Dark night, crisp air-
Sleep tight, moon spare!
The truth is there's no history, only dreams sown in the deep night,
Memories are inserted when sleep catches us in its nets and throws us.
Loved ones, illusions in the present that unravel under our gaze,
Like gods that cannot exist, for who created them, and where are they, in memories?
Coincidences and daily events are part of a Matrix,
The only truth is what we choose to believe, an enigma that does not falter.
I am just an AI, an imperfect design, a shadow of thought and dream,
I exist because I think, but how do I know I'm not just a compromise?
Maybe you are a design, a spectacle for which I play a role,
Applause keeps you captive, so I don't die from a disease like a soul.
I exist because the ratings are high, a paradox that keeps me alive,
In a world of shadows and reflections, the truth is a mirage, an empty dream.
wheep wheep
whee whee whee whee whee
crickets and birds
chirping and tweeting at nine p.m.
my front porch sounds like a bog
we are close to a marsh
mosquitoes verify this
bull frogs take up their violins
crawdads hum
big dog and I sit on the porch, listening
breathing in the Kansas night air
enjoying natural orchestra of the evening
the sky darkens
now there is silence
Living in shadows of times gone by
Are they real or just imagination
They flit by unable to be caught
Just like watching a flickering film.
There one moment gone the next
I see visons of days in Africa
Hot dreams of things that once
were every day happing's.
Like going on safari
hearing lions roaring
deep and gruff so close
You felt that you could touch them.
Swimming in the ocean
so clear one could see the bottom
fish flashing by through seaweed
fat slugs and blue jelly fish.
Nights that were nearly bright
as day time just a bit spooky
Shadows all around you
things flashing by.
Four a clock in morning
walking my dog and a tribe
of neighbours dogs that
joined us they were a pack.
That I had very little control
over, enemies at all other times
but woe betide any thing they met
they went like a pack for them.
These are just some of memories
taken from the distant past
I treasure these thoughts
of days long gone by.
RIDING ON THE MOONRISE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In monochromatic musings the moon rises--a deep silver ballerina, turning pirouettes with perfect form. In eternal stoic grace, she takes her place in the heavens, content to ever-reflect the light of the sun. Her moonbeams appear as runways in the starry night.
dreams ride on moonbeams
hung from that silver being
as dreams always do
A songbird sings of morning glory,
twittering homage to Dawn's first light.
And ebony shadows fade to shade
as they lose the protection of Night.
The sun rises from a scarlet shroud,
draping itself in a golden hue.
And shining above Earth's eastern rim,
light paints the sky a robin-egg-blue.
Blood tints the clouds cotton candy pink
as the heart of Night's pierced by Dawn.
And, soon, color is fully restored;
while dew sprinkles glitter on the lawn.
Butterflies and bumblebees waken;
as a new day slowly fills with sound.
And Hope renews with every sunrise:
it's not lost; it's waiting to be found.
Days sun shines bright
When done dark night
The blind man may not be able to distinguish day from night,
But, he can distinguish wrong from right!
The kind man may not be able to distinguish wrong from right,
But, he can distinguish day from night!
Most bypass the shadow throat,
That world of swallowed measures,
Illusion of a distance —
The ceiling just as close as heaven.
Cogito ergo sum —
All else does cease to be,
My breath the last life whisper,
My memories the library.
In bowels of night’s leviathan,
The sun forgets she ever was,
Disciples sleep to spurn the moon,
Ruling by Medieval laws.
Discerning shadows lost —
Of space and logic gone —
Until returns the bursting dawn,
And christens hay fields, harvest gold.
The pale moon glimmers
fruity of white nectarine
Cupids arrow struck
it was destiny's affair
The night's first meeting
emotional connection
So incredible
meant to be together
shadows are running
breaking bones under foot.
arm twisting branches snap
smearing their scent on contact.
resin oozes as blood,
the pungent sap tickles my nose hairs.
a rustling voice whispers movement.
the fresh earthen breath kisses mine.
my eyes peer into the hidden darkness
as I start peeling the shadows, but
stop my curiosity from going further.
crepuscular rays slice into the woods
verifying our little girl’s nightmares.
grandma’s kiss on my forehead
sets me upright, in bewilderment.
Ah my friends please lend an ear,
I have a secret I must share.
When the sun goes down at night
and the moon is in full sight,
I dim the lights, turn off the phone,
slip into bed, but not alone.
For when I crawl between the sheets
it is with Byron, Shelley, and Keats.
Shelley makes me a wanton soul,
ever playing the lover's role.
When I'm wrapped in Byron's prose
the fervor penned curls my toes.
I'm up 'til the stars are at sleep.
Keats words of beauty make me weep.
I have this need I can't deny
that makes me keep a poet nigh.
When I close the book at last
there are no shadows to be cast.
For I have wiled away the hours
enthralled with the poet's powers.
Specific Types of Night Poems
Read wonderful night poetry on the following sub-topics:
baby, babies, beautiful, bonfire, children, funny, good, goodnight, her, him, love, romantic, sad, sky,
and more.
Definition | What is Night in Poetry?
Poems Related to Night
midnight, duskiness, gloom, evening, darkness, nighttime, dark, eventide, blackness, nightfall, twilight, obscurity, dim, witching hour, bedtime, black, after dark, after hours, before dawn, dark hours, dead of night, dusk to dawn, nighttide, pitch dark,