Long Insomniacs Poems
Long Insomniacs Poems. Below are the most popular long Insomniacs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Insomniacs poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
I might have seen,
(not on a movie or television screen),
but had looked where the mind flickers
when I am not there
to block the view.
In that place, where my dreams
see through a darkling glass,
skins and organs put on new clothes,
mind-bones structure the unfinished scaffolding
of forgotten lives.
Life-stories just threads in a flying carpet,
a legend for a Navaho shaman
to drape about his shoulders.
Perhaps reincarnation is a book of dreams
for insomniacs.
I watch for facets in a prism,
each one is cut into a hundred views,
a casting of what was or could be.
There are names and places,
all sorts of leasing’s
destined to always by-pass each other
until all arrive as one
in one multifaceted picture.
Those faces mean nothing much
until the mirror reveals your eyes watching,
as if you had just walked
through a door in a mega-mansion
you helped build.
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?
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.
What is that awareness by which each body-mind feels alive and becomes aware?—Unseeking Seeker
The underlying of dog-eat-dog world,
dialogue used to defuse what’s within,
unveiling characteristics, plots and tension
Wilty pleasures of ha ha ha’s thin skin
the restless measured writing in prose
adding realism with metaphor tags
Anxiety insomniacs expose egocentricities,
loyal coterie, and owning denial lags
In what’s plain and unembellished, ordinary,
unpretentious loud screams heard
See me, feel me, read me,
clinging to ink, expecting gold
Unadorned yet in an uptight hold
Give me Kodachrome and enhance my view of life!
A brighten-filter emulsifies, nothingness’ behind
Breathe in, pause, exhaling into wake-sleep
I go beyond the sky and stars, the earth moon trails,
minus space junk’s desires, cheap mind-litter
I am Artemis ll, yet I’ve no mind-space or time
Without a shell without a conch,
I'm the propeller in a solar system
accelerating into orbital grace in a single launch
Earth appears with green auroras and zodiacal light,
A home planet, a breathtaking sight,
a sapphire hovering in velvet
The lexicon of language, the portrayal of image,
Off the cuff spontaneous levels roaming
Aware with deep breaths and where nothing nests behind
I seek refuge, I speak well-spoken, I’ve guidance unbroken
I make merits in holy days through alms,
offerings in namaskar and in mantras healing verses
I maintain these days, I Am this moment
Eye of the eye, nothing behind me coerces
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.
The split level blinks
at Chestnut End under
twilight's tremble, ripping me,
the oily menhaden bait,
from the under boot
The Chestnut dwellers bold
interrogative flushes him down
then plunges-up the flotsam
village scrawler
the way you talk
to a blooming night blooming
to a blow-fish blown unsuspecting
of the scuttle, skating the wake away
The insomniacs billow from
their raged ranches, wisely,
and after supper, tumbling
the trickster tumbledowning
the scrawler, the baitster
dip-fished in his own inkwell.
Ripped and chipped
in my underbrush
I hunker down loading
the mossy mossbunkers
inside my spitball.
Kicking, winding up
tumbling down madly aiming
for the ramshackle fence,
escaping once again
in my handsome
lederhosen.
Sounds that aren't there
Rattling inside my exhausted brain
Tossing turning
Thinking about yesterday
Tomorrow
Things that will probably never happen
Heart is racing
I try to breath through my nose
Like a freight train it comes out my mouth
Please God calm my spirit
Give me rest
Breathing slows
Still sleep eludes me
Legs feel like tree stumps
Back has dull ache
Should I get up
Maybe read for a while
Surely that would put me to sleep
Mary is sleeping so soundly
Don't want to wake her
Oh how I envy her
Think of water
I must remember to call ........
No think of water
Clear my mind, let it be blank
Why do I keep looking at that stupid clock??
I start to fade
Sweet sleep take me in your arms
Drifting
Falling, leg jerks
Wide awake again, will this night ever end?
Sleep used to be my best friend
Why has it turned into my enemy
It's comforts elude me
Where are those sweet dreams I rarely remember
In an hour it will be time to get up
Zzzzzzzzz
Alarm clock has no chance
sunlit hues are kaleidoscopic kisses
terrestrial impressions
testing the waterfall’s eminence,
of impetus, of its continuous flow
unbroken by striving survival,
unfiltered obstruction
flowing along its perilous path
thoughts, feelings, & reactions
meandering, sipping Adam’s ale
moods unbridle as they manifest,
ellipses elapse, evaporate
lapping reckoning runestones,
monuments reciting otherworldly
phonetic pebbles babble
of antediluvian intuition
these stones summer bleached
warn satin smooth
at half-light, titanium white glows,
there, as dusky jewels
natural caressed water wooshes
v e
r i
s i
m i
l a r
rustling the leaves—insomniacs,
lift the cyclical immersive mind
rushing, whittling a way
recanting,
chanting murmurs that calm my soul
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?