Best Insomniacs Poems
At 3am you become your own philosopher, categorizing
the different genres of humans and wondering
if you fall even remotely close to anyone on the spectrum.
You debate with yourself the meaning of life, again,
and then regret everything you accomplished the previous day.
5am, that’s the breaking point.
The sun climbs out of bed, and chases away
the comforting lure of night and all dreams of slumber.
The damned birds start peeping and you curse and sigh,
watching the room change colours
until you must get up to join the others.
But 4am, it’s the gaping time of day
that even the insomniacs deny.
As if night took a deep breath and forgot to exhale,
the silence is quieter, the darkness more pure.
You hide under covers and stare into emptiness
trying to make something of black space
but your mind remains impossibly blank.
Chirpy birds disturb my deep sleep.
Sky pastels reflect in a somber ashen tinge.
Sun seems to be lost in a floating mist,
cloaking wet slates and chimney smoke.
As lamp lights reflect upon puddles,
poured into uneven pavement slabs,
it seems like an abundance of angels,
wept like irritated insomniacs overnight.
In the backdrop of contemplation,
a trash truck thunders and plunders,
with boisterous waste collectors,
wheeling bins into its hungry mouth.
Sky paints in an apocalypse aura.
Mind is intrigued - pondering,
if only it wasn't just palpable garbage,
that was taken away and forgotten.
insomnia night after night
restlessness tense & disturbed
lying awake the mind modifies
mutates
preceding delusional dreams
consciousness remains alert
creative and mindful words emerge
falling like puzzle pieces
perfectly clear
brain on the ball
title transparent
insomnia creates
another verse
and so it continues.. imagination
inspired though sleepless despair
bedside lamps beam gentle glow
ingenious words emerge and flow
finally...
morning light sets insomniacs free
another poem is shaped
fashioned—complete
elated euphoria
compulsive fixation
communicating
another verse
Copyright-- Kim van Breda
Morning filled with conversations
in my headsetted ringing ears
under keyboarded fingers
across the ocean
next door
I want to drink wine with you
read Walt Whitman with you
sleep in your arms
publish with you
dream
Coffee for me, with sleep drunk eyes
you horrible insomniacs
you funny inspirational
sharers of poetry and
friendship
I sit down with you, to beat loneliness
keep it at bay, at distance
I reach my hand to
you all with tears
of love
***
March 18, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
This is the good ship Dreamtime
And she sets sail every night
Weighing anchor for her cruise
With the fading of the light.
Her passengers are all dreaming
That they are all still awake
Suffering from insomnia and waiting
For the arrival of daybreak.
Her crew are all phantoms
Spirits of the sleeping brain
Watching carefully over
Those on this ethereal main.
There are screams and moans
And some of them quietly weep
As they journey through the night
None realising they are asleep.
She drops anchor to disembark
Just before breaking dawn
Transporting the travellers home
To their own bed early each morn.
Where they awake exhausted
For each of them still think
All through that long long night
They’ve not slept a single wink.
The good ship Dreamtime then
Fades quietly from their sight
Until the next dusk when She’ll
Reappear to cruise another night.
Every night She cruises
Answering their call
And no matter how many ask
She accommodates them all.
She is the good ship Dreamtime
Who, in her own special way,
Helps sleeping insomniacs turn
Each sleepless night into day.
SLAM - a form of poetry wherein poets slam, insult, roast and/or highly criticize each other in poetic form.
*
My General Poet Slam
*
You dare refer to what you write as poetry?
I read inconsistencies and total lack of originality.
Your haiku's truly lose any and all credibility,
and your limericks are as lame as can possibly be.
Your couplets are what I find most pleasing to read
because even though they are meaningless and boring,
at least they are brief,
but it is most likely that I'll forever give your poetry a read.
I'm an insomniac, and your poetry naturally puts me directly to sleep.
Don't quit your day job,...seriously,
but you might make a fortune helping insomniacs to get some sleep.
There are people with this condition
And many people are not aware
This is not mental sub division
Join me and show you care
They suffer from sleepless nights
But they are not insomniacs
They remember flight or fight
Join me and have there backs
I raise awareness for there souls
To keep them feeling strong
Get shot of all there evil trolls
Keep these people where they belong
It's a condition known as PTSD
I want you all to understand
This can affect you and me
Or even someone in the school band
It is not just the serviceman or woman
That this can hurt and destroy
It's everyone on this land
From the eldest to youngest boy
It is the trauma that they have seen
That eats and niggles away
From accidents where they have been
Their memories are here to stay
These people need love and understanding
A shoulder, an ear or a friendly face
CBT is really outstanding
And is ahead in this race
For those that don't know what it is
Cognative behavioral Therapy
It's big words now understand this
It helps people to be happy
It gives them systems to understand
Attempts to conquer all their fears
Trains the mind to help them stand
Amongst emotion and the tears
It gives them hope
Gets them off the dope
Gives them a mission
And a vision
This is not a quick fix
Many demons will change tact
Be there for them in the mix
This will help that's a fact
Hope defeats suicide
It helps you to believe
This is going to be a hard ride
But they deserve to live
In a house by a highway by a railroad
Eyes open to a self-set sleep-destroying buzzer
That waking mind impudently pretends
To ignore.
Penetrating the window barrier
The air conducts a heavy diesel lullaby.
Over wealthier suburbs slips a transport,
Supersonic, though no sweeter music,
For rich and poor alike a boon to sleep;
Heard only by more wicked insomniacs
For whom the watch's competent hum is a dirge.
Descending in a shower of metallic disintegration
Three men ignite the atmospheric blindfold, survive,
Do not plunge white-hot into the sea, a common meteor,
But drift coolly down on nylon wings
To the waiting Carrier of the 300 lb. Angelfood.
The mind shrinks
From the prospect of that confrontation,
From the phallic disruption of Christian paradise,
Then cries,
'Oh, let there be nothing on earth but leavings,
Nothing but star-ships on a photon sea…'
Now begins man's search for a Southland.
Yet, as light passes venetian blinds,
Like music through classical guitar strings,
Touching the softened form of familiar Love,
The rods of the eye wander adagio
Along the bars of a century-old sight before rising,
'Dethrone the convict from electric eclipse,
Redress the squalid in disposable, dust-free clothing,
Release the lovers to their denouement…'
The earth womb trembles in the last pains
Of the dark hour,
Heralding man's difficult birth.
In the depth of darkness sounds, words, just words of meaningless consequence
Never was there a line so cold, so still, overflowing with too much to hold
Elegant lies weaved into one, the crash comes soon as the enchanted deception runs
Vivid colors, blood red pumps and with every word the mind carries the forbidden orb
Idolized perfection of thought and words, lips move as hearts tear, a lived lie rooted in flesh
Trivial tasks made into chores, that one line a promise of vows,rocks hide on crashing shores.
And with the hourglass runs out, sand poured drinks for the parched sitting on stools of doubt.
Bible teachings show guarantees, written in stone, did they know circumstance as these?
Lying now, even now as confessional insomniacs crawl in guilt, the pills to fall to that darkness yet
Even now in crammed spaces, dark rooms, the inevitable black of truth stains the white of lies.
Truck Stop Time
The frozen wind cracks its whip
And slits my darkened lips
One on top of the other, dry.
The warm blood hardens scabs crusty on my
Four o’clock shadow
Four o’clock a week ago.
Eyes half open
Two thirds shut
Cold air bites my ass
And my nocturnal pupils pinch
As I walk into the Pure Oil Truck Stop
I-75 at state route 309
Two o’clock, snapping my fingers to Conway Twitty
Two o’clock a week ago.
These grizzly-bear beer-bellied, hauling ass
Gnawing on their Texas breakfast, eggs and home fried forks
As I sit down in the faded sexual leather booth number three
The insomniacs and drunken loners tip their noses
Shot by snow outside.
“Give me a coffee.”
Thick as muddy-cat-****-snow
Marshmallows?
No, ’cause I can feel my big toe thawing out
Below my Levi’s, greased by Jack Daniels, that
Couldn’t stay down to keep me warm
When I was really cold
A week ago.
Coffee arrives
Graveyard attendant with a whore’s body
Tight faded sexual leather
Burnt taste buds as the coffee oozes down
Over the J.D. and the roast-beefed intestine.
Arby’s a week ago.
Razored lips
Wet again as I get up leaving a quarter.
Whores get cheaper, the air gets meaner, I get tired
A week from now late night emissions of Jack Daniels
Coffee will pass back up by my lone tonsil
Trucks will pull out, warm CO2 **** on the blacktop
Whores will look out the windows, warm
I’ll walk down Leonard Avenue
The bird will be nipping
Nipping at 2:23 a.m. a week ago.
On an early morning walk of coffee and salt
under a sullen sky filled with the tridents of wings,
I add my footprints beside a blowsy sea (praised be
Poseidon,) that accepts the given of a northeast wind,
and the still mirror of a summer day. This ocean's re-
chargeable, my one immutable constant, except for shifting
cobalt, soda bottle green, the edgy, unsettling gray
of northeast storms. She alone, resurrects the child in me--
the girl of full moon nights and open windows, the fledgling
woman alone in an old garage apartment in her
hometown, where a carnelian sun set over fishing
vessels and empty river-front packing plants.
I share my ocean with other insomniacs. Runners pass,
racing the sun to its zenith. Down the beach there is Yoga,
and a contemplative in his lawn chair watches the hypnotic
breakers form and reform with their zebra patterns,
driven, as they are, to decorate the shoreline, to deposit
spittle for scavenger sanderlings, chasing miniscule
morsels. The haughty gulls' absolute arrogance is skewered
by their spindly legs, negotiated so nimbly, two
seem a single navigation.
Where are the donax when the waves roll back, hard-
wired to burrow their small shells in wet sand? Are they
history, as in sea oats I may not pick, sand hills I may not
climb, seines no longer dragged by neighborhood guys
bare-chested in waist deep surf to snare slippery supper.
"Dommage"! "Que lastima"! All of the above. As for myself,
I sail my colors high, no pity here--"Tout change, tout
change, tout a' grandi' like the sea urchin I once
was, washing away the blemishes of being.
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said i had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
I live between tonight and tomorrow..
I dance upon the valley that separates adulthood from recklessness.
I find myself in the city lights,
caught between my mother's nightmares and my freedom.
My mistakes stay in the shadows, where I can misplace them.
Each one breathes a different rhythm.
They're like a photograph that's been filtered too many times
Only the outlines can be detected while the details transform to grain.
Bars comfort insomniacs, the lonely, the scared, the prideful, the weak, the lost.
We become only as tall as the stools we sit on,
entangled in a burning drink like a knot that won't loosen.
I inhale the city lights and wait to be illuminated.
I find my shine in the first drink and the last one, and in all the ones in between.
I barter my dreams for black out slumbers.
The sun rises along with my comprehension.
I try to gather fragments of the memories I surrendered,
piecing them together to create my own rum soaked puzzle.
Another raw mark of passion bruises my neck, reminding me I'm my father's disgrace.
Images of my mother's face slip away as my eyes can only gravitate to the floor.
Sometimes, when the party stops and the air grows as still as a moonlit lake,
I can hear her prayers.
The wind soothes my face while the sun kisses my cheek,
momentarily cradling my guilt from last night's wreckage.
It's like the last remnants of sand in a shoe, there's always some left.
Each night chips away, leaving ashes of me and my mistakes scattered among the city.
Until steel bars encage me or dirt surrounds me, you can find me in the city lights.
Streetlights mute the deepening shade of ebony,
struggling to soften the harsh blanket of night.
Dancing beams tease tired human eyes,
hiding the darkness behind a ray of golden light.
Evening sounds slowly give way to midnight slumber,
beating in time with sleeping human hearts.
A temporary peace lingers upon the hushed air,
only to be doused when the black silence parts.
Starlight's lullaby slows the frantic pace of life,
easing countless stresses built by the mind.
While fireflies of electric lights glow quietly,
preying upon the wandering insomniacs they find.
The baleful glare from the misunderstood moon
bathes the tempest tossed world in heaven's light.
As time begins to dress life in dawn's beauty,
diverse noises erode the fragile, mute night.