Best Somnambulant Poems
Fierce am I, and fearless
Challenging the shades of winter
Taunting its dreaded demise
Mocking the shadow's prognostication
Tickling the timid hearts
Of somnambulant lovers
Arising to a chilling challenge
I stand the guardian of March’s madness
Exacting a toll on all who pass
For I am February
And I hold no heart
But yours
A Gods Eye View of The World
Every form blends and fades
Persistent though
And meaningful
Below from top to bottom slides
Encompassed by
Itself
Describes a purpose
To shift from one to another
And never made less
Than the original
Veins and circulars entwined
Each led to destiny
Between crags and breezes
The formation
Forces of opposition
And tendrils equate
The indefatigable line of being
A mingled sea of light
Transposes through shadow
Arch and rock
Air indivisible
A vibrant salute continues
In a heraldry of birth
Festooned upon the relinquished
A sleeping crown
All appears dancing
A choreography of miniatures
And magnitude beyond thinking
Swift sent of consciousness
Awakened in a tide
Of gesture
And slow somnambulant time
Picks blades or petal
From hair or eye
Thus is its passing
A present unending momentum
Between the washing colour
Of an unseen spectrum
A fluid solidity of dust
On which inscribed imaginations
Pallet of brilliance
Careless even reckless
In its precision of chaos
The full monument of awareness
And spoken singular
Undivided
Unsullied
Stands between feet and sky
Between earth and star
An infinitesimal populace
Of essence and core
Scattered seeds individually planted
To witness
The realms of awe
( Thank you for this poem ).
Slow or fast
we think behind a slip stream,
a contrail of the gone;
of what went by a momentary window
long ago.
Asleep under a blacktop,
street-cars roll over my me-mind,
the crunch of old bones
crackles like thin ice.
I am recalling a time
now set in resin.
Desiccated bugs bite through,
gnaw at half-painted pictures.
Lost paths
for the somnambulant dead.
Elephants gather to revisit graveyards.
Alive in a memory,
but let’s not call this 'living,'
double, treble dipping
into the time-worn.
Such old imagining's will eventually
kill every analog clock
with their own internal hammers.
What am I writing now?
Yesterday and tomorrow sway
like old measuring scales.
Should I think like a Greek,
or a Jew,
arise and dance
shaking my head back and forth
as if awakening
to every fleeting pause?
This is what I am writing
upon the underside
of a road...
an odyssey of sorts
one taken by a horde of lemmings.
A talking point
indicating how I got here
recalling this and that,
but then again
nothing is now real forever.
I do not abide
in bright sunlight.
“I’m a vampire rose.”
Recall last night
when you first came upon me.
You had wandered
unknowingly
into my woodland domain.
Like a somnambulant
delectable dreamer
you walked into
my succubus lair;
you, with your scrumptious
mouth and eyes.
Beneath the lush tangle
of myriad leafy boughs,
I waited in shadows,
hidden until you
found me there.
As you stood rooted
to the forest floor
admiring my blood red petals,
your lust became
my opportunity,
for when you tried
to pluck me up,
you pricked your hand
on my thorns.
Did you not realize
that was my plan?
You bled, and then . . .
you became my
fledgling devotee.
It was as if I had sunk fangs
into your beautifully scrumptious
pale neck.
You have returned now
longing to
“kiss me when sun sleeps”
for you are pulled by the
mulberry mystery of
my strange unnamed omnipotence.
I am your goddess.
No other rose
can you ever find
that will compare to me.
Though you take up your quill
and bleed poetry
again and again, know this:
“I own your signature.”
Come, my lover
I will blossom each night
for you.
You can caress me
in the moonlight,
but never can you clasp
“your fingers around my soul.”
Go look into the moon’s pool.
Your reflection
you will no longer see,
and you will be
drawn to me for as long
as I shall desire you to be.
My lover, my thrall,
I have bestowed on you
my cardinal immortality.
Until I release you,
your destiny is here -
beyond the gloaming.
[starboard port]
the ocean—an onyx plate predawn—
somnambulant ships preen with a swag of
warning lights
massive hulls: cargo ships, flotillas, tankers,
passenger liners loll; red lights buss
the somber slate of sky—spangled strings of
bawdy bulbs on the riggings—pole dance
beside the quay—ridged, behemoth smokestacks
toy with the flames of gold and white
[cabin’s lav—occupied]
waiting, my mind trundles to funeral pyres
Viking ships, then returns to marvel at
on-coming airport pot lights which
upstage the walled gasps
[very occupied]
the exodus to Singapore crescendos
we land—manned the plane performs
a ritual slide—ash and steam spew from
stacks of the other perpendicular
members
Touch down.
[the door opens]
First Published by Shooter Literary Magazine Spring of 2017
Threadbare, uninviting, almost claustrophobic,
And cold. I could not afford heat.
I put on the lights and felt an icy solitude.
No home sweet home for me.
Would I get attuned to my new apartment?
Lonely, I ate my packed tasteless food quickly,
changed into a cosy track suit, switched off the lights
and went to bed hoping for pleasant elusive dreams.
Suddenly melodic tunes infiltrated my slumber.
I wake. Upstairs someone must love old time songs.
Like a somnambulant I climb the stairs and knock.
She was like a mirage, shimmering in the haze of a desert.
Silently she beckoned me inside the warm room.
My name is Angel, she whispered. And the dance began,
Until tired, the haze of the desert enveloped me too.
Much later I woke.
I was in my bed. Was it a dream? Probably.
The landlord said the upper flat was empty still,
But to be occupied that day, Someone called Angel.
That night I did not sleep, but waited for the music to start.
Whispers drowned by ocean's sound
seagulls flying, space abound,
oceanic scent within the air
dance of waves in all its flair.
Somnambulant shadows
under moonlit skies
castaway's drunken delirium
misty morning's stare sunrise.
Silent murmurs,
majestic surrounding never ending,
green-blue's, white spume.
beautiful and powerful language.
Silence, don't say a word,
I need to hear the ocean's song.
one seventh heaven fantasy of this middle aged hetero
sexual mwm would be to take the playbook of the late
(recently deceased) Hugh Hefner. Said reverie constitutes
servicing a gamut of women, whose plethora in numbers
constitutes insatiable sexual propensity sans propinquity
perp hussy.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
despite mine middle aged (baby boomer) mwm base line
balled (though non bald) sans truth, isle be quite Ernest
and frank to state boldly, how thine bass concupiscence
trumps ambience, dalliance, essence, fragrance, generates
hefty indulgence (je nais se quois) juice kissing libidinal
makeup nursing omnipresent phallic quintessential reverent
seduction triggers unflaggingly (leaving me starry eyed for
stripes sakes) vision watering x2c (to the x power of infinity)
yielding zesty adulterous blessed coital consummation,
delicious expeditious fulfillment, generous gentle hormonal
insouciance, judiciously kneading lusciously marvelous
natural occurring pleasance, quiescent radiance, rousing
somnambulant threnody ushers victorious waltzing X-rated
yearning zeal to take a page from the playbook of the very
recently deceased Hugh Hefner housed within the PlayBoy
mansion. Game gamines gestalt gifted gonads, gopher
WD-40 resistant, cranky
mental gears no longer appraised,
honored, nor prized
as a precision crafted tool
never adequately utilized,
when eyes stared blankly
taking up space and
time (sigh hence) during
during twelve years
of public school
passively mute as a general rule
ambivalent, whether I sank or swam
during physical education
time in the pool
evincing being in
somnambulant state giving
top notch 40 ache curs and a mule
a run for his/her money,
plus also outwitting
any motley fool
nonetheless garnering huzzahs
if challenged to silent duel
despite implacable blackened
barbs didst unspool
assaulting me though
vicious and cruel
fast forward to
Matthew Scott Harris
at this present age
once feigned numbskull,
now deeply rutted,
pockmarked, cratered, asper
useful as fist size asteroid,
which post mortem will
not surprisingly, definitively,
and conclusively gauge
imagine dissecting my
fifty plus shades
of gray matter
revealing analogously glommed
together one severely
gunked up bacteriophage,
where once upon a time,
when a newborn babe
feeling warmth mother's chest,
she long since
passed away forced guest
to attend masquerade
hosted by grim reaper,
a most nefarious,
obnoxious, and pernicious pest
intricately, handsomely, genetically
her cremated remains
freed to the four corners
of the globe quest
inert particles integrated
within biosphere, she remains
perpetually in motion,
and never at rest
within infinite void
nonetheless...the spirit
of (the late) Harriet Harris
passed the electric
acid kool aid test,
and thus continues
to sprinkle the world
wide web with zest.
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps.
Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.
Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.
Snow drifts buoyant on the breeze downy
like a dandelion seed touching the cheek of dawn delicately...
Endless crystalline patterns of white grace
each hollow, cleft and limb formed in rose pink light..
Upon cold surfaces of glass or stone, snow glances
Up on the warmer growths of somnambulant grass it clings
a fusion of facets, a light Spring feeding for rising daffodils
each jade green spear engulfed in a pocket of white...
True,
they have seen more
than their age.
But in the hazy,
half morning
field of “stelae”,
we, somnambulant
observers,
select our optimal view
between the pages of the Talmud.
Coded,
In the text of your staccato voice,
there is,
our consensual agreement of being.
It is not quite,
the signatured artefact
of strict adherence,
more the oral history
of a recent past.
And,
having recorded
our verse,
concrete and solid.
You have in your mind
the route of discussion.
It is the briefest of tours,
and talks of lives lived
preceding these recent events.
We return.
The streets now awash
with preparation,
I commit to memory the impression of you.
I am conscious.
Limbs that will soon ache with fatigue,
alight from metro and tram
and converge,
on a morning
that is already spent.
Sleepless and cursing the powers that be,
Tossing and turning in wee hours, me.
But what's the use in trying to fight it?
One might as well be trying to write it.
Mayhap morning Muses will oversee.
The b ba baaa backbeat of backup beeps
and the engine rroarrrrs
join the whizz of rubber wheels
and the lingering laughter of lovers
at the intersection
The beep-beep tootelie-toots
of arriving transit buses
tickles the funny-bone of morning
waking somnambulant walkers
who dot the sidewalk below my perch,
even the slap of skate-boards
and the clinking tweeter od metal shopping carts
makes music…
Each raucous sound rattles
the single-paned windows of clap-board relics
pinging off plaster, vibrating through ancient oak floors
coming home to roost in the mingled fragrance
of brownies and mary jane.