Deep one night, in fitful sleep
there was I, among
bright night-flowers
and warm sea winds
of tropical ecstasy.
Along bright, tranquil ripples
and swaying purple leaves
she was there, tender at first
in the blue-green lagoon.
Her mythical beauty, stunning
but peculiar yellow eyes, ominous
study me mindfully,
in the light of the night-sun.
Slipping through the coolness
of the sea-pond, I reach
toward her, enveloped--
only she stabs at my soul, taking it,
leaving me to ponder
the warm horizon beyond the everglade.
The farmer looked on sown fields with dismay,
Be-spotted with tiny holes in despoiled array.
Each spot where mice had dug up and eaten.
Wheat seeds sown with mice-controls well beaten.
The farmer had tried to poison the mice.
Tried birds of prey once or twice.
Tried cats and smelly scent deterrents,
All to no avail to beat the endless recurrence.
One night the farmer awoke from fitful sleep.
Ah Hah! I have an idea cheap, neat and deep.
What if I make the entire field smell of wheat,
By spraying the field all over with wheat-oil neat?
Sure enough, the over spray with oil worked a treat.
The mice dug a myriad of holes with tiny feet,
Where their smell, said wheat should be,
Only to find all their holes empty, no seed to see.
Frustrated, exhausted they paused their paws.
Cursed their noses, tricked by the scent-only cause.
A wheat field, over-sown with superfluousness,
Made their search, dig to eat meaningless.
Four dead Jesuits,
now confirmed as child
molesters, but when alive
these monsters’ crimes,
were covered in
obfuscation.
And when they passed,
were the Last Rites recited
and are they buried
in sanctified grounds?
May their rest be as
unrestful as their
victims lives and
and the fitful sleep
of their confessors.
They visit him every night
Ghostly apparitions without fright
For he knew each and every one
Talking together until the night was done
And so he sleeps through the day
In fitful sleep until the sun slips away
They return when the moon rides high
To recount their stories of days gone by
The final night came when a storm blew
As thunder and lightning split the sky in two
His final wish was granted then
When she appeared to him at the end.
© Paul Warren Poetry
dread weight portends a churning belly-ache
the day sinking ......
relentless countdown to the frowning hours
before the night of fitful sleep awakes disturbed
that day is now here ...... too soon the unwelcome light
numb propulsion, impending imminent
door opening ......
pounding heart, cold palms sweat and muscles tense
room full of others with turning eyes, closing ranks
see inside myself ...... projected back, enquiring looks
I am they, all watching and they are right
feedback feeding ......
clenched fist focus on self-fulfilling fool
someone speaks to me! to me! I feel the blood surge
as flushed cheeks inflame ...... and amplify my distress
slight surprise, recoil, rebuffed dismissal
stranded squirming ......
cornered, hurried walk to any doorway
blunder into the venue hall, seats at the back
anonymity ...... breathe once more, escape route planned
steal away, out of sight, try to regroup
reprocessing ......
unravelled depressing disappointment
sucker punched, floored again, selfish whimper
referee above...... whispers " get over yourself "
I bequeath to my heart none else then pure love
and in the meantime all that is me around me and inside me
I entrust to my Father in heaven;
Each and every thought I think, all feelings I insip
I bring forth to the alter of His mercy;
I pray for strength and understanding, by the settle of my night
May He send forth His Angels of consort
and help me to attain a fitful sleep
as I breathe slowly and deeply, into the arms of love .
Amen!
April, you fetch flowers of spring to rise;
Lacing in verdant green and fruit to reap.
Gardens seed bloom, whist bees and butterflies
Saunter by tippling passion nectar deep.
Renew daytime length increase leaden skies
Whist nighttime length decreasing; fitful sleep.
4/22/2020
Poetry Contest: Each Letter Threads The Verse
Sponsored by: Joseph May
He opened his box on Christmas morn
That wondrous day when Christ was born,
But it was no gift... he softly wept,
It was his bed, for here he'd slept.
His belongings in two carrier bags
Cast off clothes, mainly rags,
Who in their homes could believe
That beneath a bridge on Christmas eve
People huddled in fitful sleep,
If they saw...they too would weep.
Entry for
The darker side of Christmas Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
20/12/2019. Placed 2nd.
Death came for her on a Sunday.
I have to fry the chicken for church, she argued.
Death hung out in a closet with mildew and stains.
She tried on clothes the victim would not need any more.
Came out wearing a black leather coat that fit perfectly.
You can have that, the victim said, hoping for more time.
Monday I have Bible study, she said. Can you give me Monday?
What time is it over? Death asked.
I should be home by noon, she said.
Can I keep the leather jacket?
Of course!
They slept together that night – she and Death.
It was a fitful sleep as death held her arm down hard.
She decided to outsmart Death.
Can I go to Bible Study alone? She asked.
Death laughed.
She was helpless
No escape.
She had forgotten this….
and again it stabs, a flickering flash
like Macbeth’s floating dagger:
invisible, hallucination, a silent pain.
Like a nettle, a rose’s thorn,
it twists and curdles into rotten barbed wire.
It rests in your pockets
sits in your palm,
it vibrates on our tables
and jolts us from an already fitful sleep.
Influencing ones and zeros
flood over bodies and seep into conversations,
ooze across self-worth and cover mirrors -
slow and unnoticed, impaling a society turned statue
by an intangibly weighted media.
Tuesday was the day the ogre found my kitchen.
The dog sat in the hallway for an hour watching her
Empty my refrigerator, and two cupboards.
I had never heard my dog whine like this, I thought it odd
But I was tired, after a fitful sleep,
So I called in sick, and slid back under my pillow.
By noon the ogre had emptied two more cupboards.
I know because she was a braggart.
When I trotted into my bathroom I noticed my makeup was gone.
I did not see who was wearing my eyeliner and lipstick
Until I reached the kitchen. Where the dog would not go.
No wonder. The ogre was enormous, flamboyant, and intimidating.
“Is that my lipstick?” I asked her.
She laughed, showing me uneven yellow teeth
Then she began to brag about what she had eaten first,
and how fast she had done it.
I tried to chase her away, but she refused to go.
She sent me to the store with a shopping list.
What could I do?
She was holding my dog hostage.
Can you hear
The music strange
That sings of change
In sad cheer?
Can you feel
The odd echo
Harsh yet mellow
In sad thrill?
Can you know
The misty breeze
Descend to squeeze
In last flow?
Can you see
The glimpse unknown
Where what is shown
In sad spree?
Can you catch
The sudden spark
As lightning arks
In sad sketch?
Can you sire
A desire deep
As fitful sleep
In hot pyre?
Can you stream
A burning flame
As the end game
In sad dream?
Leon Enriquez
26 January 2019
Singapore
My Face Or Yours
(Ship-wretched revisited)
Out on the reef, lurk broken timbers
Phantom remains of his long ravaged boat
Each fitful sleep brings a new silver moon
And his silhouette yacht now afloat
But in the day those dank timbers sway
Like some awful thing that expects you
So he watches the ocean for one little motion
That might suggest imminent rescue
And there in the ocean churned lather
He spotted a floating cadaver
But it couldn't be someone he’d known
For he’d started his voyage alone
Then at the reef where his boat came to grief
Still no-one else was aboard
He’d made all the checks about previous wrecks
So he muttered some words to his lord
He dragged the man out and turned him about
And stared momentarily thrown
The face smashed about had its eyes eaten out
But the ear ring was what made him groan
His certainty grew as he knew it would do
When the arm with the sticking out bone
Had the words Tom and Sue in a heart shaped tattoo
And the disfigured face was his own
Falling into a fitful sleep
I tossed and turned throughout the night
writhing in agony
I was battling with my inner demons
My husband woke up
and could see I was troubled
he put his arm round my waist to comfort me
I breathed in deeply
quivered
then let out an enormous fart
my inner demon had finally been released
oh what a relief!
10/20/18
The I-phone buzzes off and on all night.
An annoying sound, perils of playing multitude of word games.
Mostly scrabble, but others. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
I turn it off, but the buzzing continues. In uneven intervals,
Not a pretty rhythm or sound.
My I-pad is a culprit now. It is now buzzing too.
How she linked up with my I-phone is only known to my husband
Who thought he was helping me.
The electronic age is becoming annoying now
As it is bothering my already fitful sleep.
I unplug everything, feeling like the master.
Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.
My nerves are becoming irritated.
I am thinking of tossing them both out the window.
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