To date the snorthog
has only been seen
late at night in the bedroom
disturbing me and my dreams
first he hogs the bedclothes
then snorts up a storm
while I lie awake
counting sheep
trying to keep warm
but before I become
a grumbly old grouch
there is yet one solution
have him sleep on the couch
I fell into a shallow dream
as often as I have, and do;
amongst sleep and wake where things seem
so nebulous between the two.
A dead leaf floating down a stream;
the cold unknown lurking below;
the radiance of sun on high,
slow winding in the gentle flow
while some familiar friends drop by;
a mourning dove, a cawing crow.
There’s wonder in our shallow dreams
just past the point of counting sheep,
where nothing is quite what it seems;
a world half in, half out of sleep;
where laughter interposes screams.
You can awake; it’s true to say,
sometimes awash with burning guilt;
did I really she betray?
Whose crimson blood was it that spilt?
The bedclothes wet, in disarray.
Increasing one's mileage
though a long-lost child of Earth
hiking in familiar wilderness areas
sluggish, bed-bound days
wandering in the midst of the night
daydreaming with a night light on
snarled up in bedclothes.
discern internal struggles.
simple, intricate, and exquisite
conversions from the Ember era
In the silence, hear faint whispers
I indulge in sluggish laps
I wish to hear your syllogistic reasoning
not believing what is reported
Many people can sleep soundly
All is resolved with syntax
happily soaking up insights into you
whenever you hit the silent button.
Written: May 22, 2023
Memories appear like the first drops of rain
Who are you, this is driving me insane
Faces familiar do not match with names
Sit upright in bed, memories circling
Leave me alone I need to sleep
Laughter, no pity keep me awake instead
Room starts to spin, feeling unwell
Familiar voices without recognition
Guide me away from all these premonitions
Adventures start, impossible scenes
Scenery not known, let me out of here
Silence, as I once again sit up in bed
The kind of silence that makes its own sounds
I get out of bed and walk the room
Feeling unwell from all this action
My own voice makes me aware
Aware of what, the question is asked
Who asked the question, certainly not me
Back in my bed it is now the witching hour
Every move I make the scene re-runs
I want to cry out my voice deserts me
Throw of the bedclothes, need some air
Something or someone touched me for sure
Help, help, cries go unanswered
That silence, once again so quiet
static, erratic, am I dead?
The spinning increases, my head ready to explode
First rays of daylight enter my room
Thank goodness, mornings, no gloom
Coffee awaits, not too soon.
Luminescent sadness
Orb of melancholy woes
Darkness holds me close
A child in dreary bedclothes.
The moon a somber mirror
Troubled nights in its reflection
Standing under a mournful tree
Its branches cry in my direction.
Bleeding condensation
Its tears echoing my pain
My purity no longer exists
What did he have to gain?
My celestial friend watches
Telling me I’m not alone
Despite the agony of home
This is the only peace I’ve known.
Innocent candle flame invokes memories
Childhood in a home not suitable
Candles handed out for bedtime
Precious items giving comfort
A yellow flickering flame lighting the way
Treat it with respect
Extinguish when ready for sleep
Two candles a week are the rations
House so large dark and creepy
Seemed alive when night time settled
Voices heard when the wind played tricks
Creaks and groans getting louder
Trees joined in the game
Swaying as they fended off the wind
Childhood and afraid of darkness
An imagination the child could not handle
Shadows on walls added to it all
Bedclothes pulled over head listening to the sounds
Peered from under the bedclothes
Candle flame burning yellow, comforting
Occasional flicker as a breeze appeared from nowhere
Bedroom door creaked open
Mother's head appeared briefly
Mother unaware her child so afraid
Wanted to shout out to her
Sleep called out its name
The candle still did flame
Left to burn until no wax is left
Tomorrows darkness will bring challenges.
Trapped in reality
The repetitive grind
The daily cycle
Awake, asleep
Awake, asleep
This morning is different
I wake
I stretch
I yawn
Sleep rubbed away
From half open lids
I notice
I puzzle
I feel
Beneath bedclothes
Abnormal additions
Attached to my back
Yet part of me
Warm like my skin
I am not scared
I am curious
I focus
They twitch
I sit up
They unfurl
Iridescent and gossamer
I concentrate
They flutter
I learn
They move faster
They lift me
I hover
I practice
I get stronger
I grow confident
I open the window
Finally, I fly free
Midsummer nights come with humid sighs,
Offering little sleep on soggy August nights
With cicadas rasping and moths lighting,
Where such critters are clearly unwanted
In spite of it all, I try to remain undaunted.
Me and the bedclothes constantly fighting
Up and down, rearranging, turning on lights,
Moths are now joined by two pesky flies.
written July 13, 2021
I saw red reflecting off flakes of snow;
as I stared out my window on tiptoe.
And I'm pretty sure I saw Rudolph's nose:
though it could have been a plane, I suppose.
I couldn't see his sleigh amidst the shadows:
but I knew that Santa Claus always shows.
And then, I heard bells jiggling, and I froze:
I'm spying on Santa; what if he knows?
I flew across the room in my bedclothes:
and closing my eyes, I pretend to doze.
What happened next, I can't rightly disclose:
let's just say spying's best left to the pros.
FATES FOOTFALLS
fate’s footfalls - the bull’s running.
i hear the sound of a stampede
at my ankles. the rush of blood
pulsing through my veins, hammering
my heart, quite like a silver spike
penetration of a vampiric scream.
(my bedclothes sweating. i turn)
darkness on a crisp Winter’s eve.
snow’s falling...i see their shape,
and then his eyes, like icy daggers.
i’m walking with increasing speed
but the sound of heavy steps following
… breathing on my neck. i fall
(like a cliff, i hang off my bed)
fooling fate, i wake up to a sunny day.
i wash the panic off my face. i run
all day long, never noticing footprints,
the same width, same length, the odor
of rotten eggs, and the black hood
that fades in and out. i rub my eyes
as death drops his ax…
(i know i won’t wake up)
3/11/2017
Dark, tranquil night grew fidgety
With fits of whooshing wind
And sleep, serene, it ebbed away
With pelting, driven rain
While wife of mine, she clutched my hand
‘Neath bedclothes warm and soft—
All through the storm we cuddled tight
As branches bobbed, they thrashed;
Pale dawn, at last, all gray and wet
Brought Eros on a call:
He saw our love, his grin he flashed,
A tempest then stirred up.
Sue’s bedclothes are soaking wet
She lies in a pool of hot sweat
Now what could be the cause …
Is it the menopause?
Her body won’t let her forget!
Sue's face gets bright red and flushed
She pretends it’s because she’s rushed
Her body is changing
She knows she is ageing -
But this subject mustn’t be discussed!
Written for a friend who is having these symptoms - Sue is not her real name!
5th October 2016
Under the bedclothes with my torch
I live in a land of dream,
where a forest grows with curly trees
and a canyon runs between
My light shines out, just like the sun,
allowing me to see,
two mountains rising in the air
as lovely as can be.
Descending down the canyon walls
all moist with steamy heat
my mind and body nearly stall
my heart pounds out it’s beat.
This place I’ve travelled many times
and every time renew
my passion for this lovely land
with such a heavenly view.
When daylight comes I know I’ll try
to share this lands deep wealth,
but now my batteries have run dry
so I’ll go to sleep myself!
Ivor G Davies
Under the bedclothes with my torch,
I live in a land of dream.
Where a forest grows, with curly trees
and a canyon runs between.
My light shines out, just like the sun,
allowing me to see,
two mountains rising in the air
as lovely as can be.
I take a trip and follow paths
where only I may be,
I move with caution in this land,
........if woke, she’ll shout at me!
Ivor G Davies
The smell of pine fills the air
Tis a sign that Christmas is near
No other smell can compair
Except one fragrance strong in here.
With bedclothes on we gather around
One by one is handed out
By mother's lovely eyes so brown
A threaded needle comes about.
First we are told we must string
We must finish before we can eat
While Christmas carols we do sing
Sometimes one of us would cheat.
Stringing popcorn is always a tradition
At our house, it's decorations on the tree
Now we have our mother's permission
To fill our tummys as full as can be.
Jan. 4, 2014
Contest~~A Child's Christmas~~
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