Long Sandman Poems
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Friday morning, 3am, I'm awake because sleep eludes me. Mr. Sandman has gone out drinking with my friend Beryl, no doubt, and subsequently neglected his charge in sending me off to slumber. It's cold. The crispness of the witching-hour air clings to my naked chest, draping itself over me like a ghostly sheet of un-life. Outside my window the silence of deep-night has spread into every corner and crevice, the dark broken but barely by the pale light of the moon. She floats silently overhead, smiling and keeping watch over us from the comfort of her star-studded heaven. Is this the time to be reflecting on the events which have transpired these past few days? In the silence of this hour my mind is filled with a confusing array of questions, accusations, assumptions, realizations and regrets. When I close my eyes I find no comfort from the pain which has become my companion, sitting on my shoulder or trailing in my shadow; always present and never far away. There was a time when I could find peace within the dark rooms of my mind. Now I find only echoes. Echoes of his heart-wrenching sobs, his crystalline tears and the sound of my own heart being torn into innumerable tiny pieces. The light from the laptop screen is hurting my eyes, piercing through the veil and pulling my soul out into the world and into words. What has become of us? Where did we go so terribly off track? How could I be so completely blind to how distant and withdrawn I had become, and the pain it was causing him? I fight back the tears for they want to revel in my sadness once again. Its 3am and silence abound. In a couple of hours the sun will rise and the world will come alive. Life does go on I suppose, but not in the way I would like it to right now. It's as though I am caught in the slipstream of some cosmic monster that's pulling me in a direction I do not want to go, but that I am powerless to resist. My tired eyes are heavy and my heart is beating slow. Sleep has not come for many a night, and it is starting to show. I'll turn off the light just now and try once again to coax my mind into slumber and my thoughts into rest, but I know that when I close my eyes and wander the hallways of my mind-house he will be there around every corner and behind every door. He will be everywhere except where he should be...which is next to me.
I’m drunk, but you’re beautiful,
a line I used to rehearse.
The Dreamers’ artistic longing felt noble,
but it came with a curse.
I bought the ticket when I didn’t know better from worse.
Now I’ve got a tale of rebellion,
and I’ll share it in verse,
it all changed one Star Wars Day,
when my thirst reversed.
May the Fourth, and I felt matured.
No Padawan—now Jedi Master,
just a little unmoored.
Met some friends inclined for chilled wine,
drinking enough to feel ruthlessly divine.
That hazy day, glazed in the usual sway.
That familiar vortex, melancholy perturbed.
Soles stained deeply by the absurd,
fermented grapes, chaos,
and the dark side assured.
The dark side calls as we sit with the thirst,
but Skywalker’s force starts thinking first:
“Unlearn what you have learned.”
Yoda’s wisdom, unrehearsed.
I needed a change, something absolute.
Had to break old habits
and reroute my pursuit.
Flip the script, exit the Aristotle loop.
We can still have fun.
Still embrace the absurd.
Someone said, “It’s Star Wars Day,”
and a spark then occurred.
We found a weird café,
celebrating in cosplay,
and somewhere in that moment,
a new hope was incurred.
Arriving at the venue, a little out of town, we found the clan,
Princess Leia sold us tickets on the door deadpan,
no droids allowed, no stormtroopers,
but there was a sandman,
Inside were Wookies at the bar, slamming shots like my mum can.
Han Solo in carbonite poster hanging on the wall,
Kids having lightsaber fights with bar stools, humming bishoooom loudly down the hall.
Glass cabinets with falcons and dioramas were neat.
Cantina soundtrack playing curiously on repeat,
Grabbed snacks, Empires on screen, so we found a seat.
We wandered deeper past merch and collector cases,
through aisles of toys and cosplayed faces.
The type of folk draw to these kind of conventions,
You know the type without me having to mention,
They filled the room with joy beyond pretension,
I watched them just be, and I wanted that,
but I found I had to be patient.
I don’t have to keep falling for the trap,
it’s not just escape, it must be more pure.
I lost a friend that day, and yeah, it’s still sore.
He bowed out—boozehound chasing the score,
while I found experience, absurdity, and something more secure.
Hush now, all little children by the shadows of night,
Don’t resist, beware let the sleep take you, be at an uneasy peace,
For resistance is futile against this dream stalker,
Whom travels on the brain waves, of the unconscious mind?
Apparitions Spector, a vaporous wraith living on our inner
Deepest fears, a vampire of nightmares, feasting at the
Edge of panics scream, hidden is he beneath the layers
Of our worst horrific night terrors.
Comprehensions undetectable intruder, a burglar forcing
Entry by the elliptical moons anti rational sliding door,
A corporeal beast, thriving on the adrenaline rush,
Of the flight or freight, factors throbbing heart beat!
He this untouchable, whom slides his icy fingertips down
The backs of humanity, causing the fine hairs our necks
To rise and flair, a tip toeing sadist walking the delicate
Tightrope of our thin vail of dreams, than striking at us
With dreads demonic weapon, as we the innocent
Victim slumbers in depths deepest REM sleep.
Oh is he not the bogeyman's sandman, with his dark
Seeded bag of mischievous tricks, cast over his silhouetted
Shoulder, sneaking in the hallowed shadows of the nights
Blackened embrace.
An invisible phosphorus troll, existing without form or mass,
Slithering as a nocturnal snake, hunting the stilled warm
Embodied essence of humanity while we sleep,
And laughing at us this vaporous jackal, while we
Choke on his black nightmarish moon dust of death.
Pray faithful child beneath the illusions of the lit divide,
For guardians protection while thy rest,
So you may awaken in the warming breath. of
The next morning’s sunrise, for at night the
Demon of nightmares stalks for the hearts of the
Innocence and he takes no prisoners.
Now some may say that this mythical legend is
Just a story to scare little children, to make them
Go to sleep at night without a fight.
But others know the real truth about this
Spirit beast of olden times, these the watchers
Of dreams, and they say beware the sandman,
For he is always waiting, aware, lying in the
Blackness abyss of mankind's nightmares.
A child's pray,
Now I lain me down to sleep,
I pray the lord my soul to keep,
For if I shall die before I wake,
I wish the lord my soul to keep,
And not the sandman to take!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day
Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy
solely to acknowledge hardship
of A. R. Harris
and her husband M.S. Harris,
who cope poorly
(even courtesy medication)
with anxiety attacks, especially when
violated, probed, interrogated courtesy
Highland Manor inquisition,
which traumatizing event happened
on aforementioned date
included with poem title.
J. G. and P. F.
constitute management team
under jurisdiction of Quoss
(pronounced chhath tt) and Grade,
who espouse principle laissez faire
but whose exhibited heavy handedness
pertaining to the married couple
named in the third line of this poem.
Either one or the other gals
who attend these premises
here at the Schwenksville location
(I won't mention
the state as penile solitude)
alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor
emanating from unit B44,
our man/woman cave.
We received a twenty four hour deadline
to get into shipshape the disarray
messiness even Pigpen
would find abominable,
yet upon receiving both
oral and written admonition,
me and the missus
buckled down and kickstarted
frenzied whirlwind one bedroom
apartment cleaning spree
zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill
when the clock struck bewitching hour,
more specifically that alluded time
synonymous with midnight.
No matter we felt dead tired
whereat neither option
to acquire additional time,
nor desist existed,
and yet nearly impossible mission
to continue, but appealing
to temptation of sandman
out of the question.
Deep sleep for the weary
appeared oh so heavenly,
on par with plate
of powder milk biscuits,
our mandate (analogous to pilgrims
adults and children -
forced to fight in crusades)
forbid cessation, thus to plod
and plow onward
despite overwhelming urge to plotz,
(not the slang definition)
found yours truly
blissfully in dreamland
when me noggin hit the pillow,
Not for a minute
could yours truly
sit down and take a breather,
despite severe lower
(rightside) back pain.
Said dull throbbing ache
diagnosed as tight muscles
by Doctor (physical therapist)
John R. Mishock,
he would not countenance
(approve, comply, honor...)
I popped one Ibuprofen.
Ah...Satisfactorily Succumbing Into Salubrious Sleep
Aye sandman, I surrender to yar supreme governance
surreal spectacular soiree gifts subconscious sphere
soothing (analogous to natural palliative), ah...REM
member nought, asper exquisite entertaining cerebral
kaleidoscope replete with nonpareil visual trappings
aesthetically tantalizing unforgettable..., but lo' eye cant
captcha scenario upon awakened state, tis bothersome
transcendent, resplendent, quiescent,...transient dream
ticking escapement shuttered against recollections...
aye plead mercy to jog, (and gently jimmy - yeah of
course figuratively) shuttered facet slammed tight soon
nee immediately inaccessible dimension brought forth
teasingly, phantasmagorically, numbingly ephemeral,
nonetheless temporarily liberating, enshrouding, and
cocooning against incessant drubbing mine corporeal
wakeful body electric relentlessly fraught with profuse
inexplicable perspiration (principally palms) recurs
like clockwork (despite prescription medications), this
physiological discomfort hazards livingsocial quotidian
joyless agonizing oft times including courtesy, not
"FAKE" panic attack, these anxiety less debilitating,
when emotionally torturous teenage years wracked
every cell (no matter how fast I ran - just Kuwait, the
mailer daemons threatened) to undermine even flickr
of happiness, hence suicidal ideations (eternal slumber)
tantalized (still populate though processes) as surefire
solution to mitigate despite leaving those who love,
and especially hate yours truly, his existence bereft
of quality, though tranquil physical quasi rural setting
(Schwenksville), a naturalistic, fantastic, holistic balm,
here quiet as a cemetary removed, not considerably
distant from Philadelphia (hubbub disagrees with hair
trigger vulnerability), where madding crowd affects my
innate neurological predisposition, these lovely bones
easily rattled, quite aggravating to live verging upon
tremulous agitation assuaged through writing - catharsis
delivers temporary alleviation as doth solitary voluntary
sequestration poor substitute to relish L'Chaim!
Fiery Lotus blossoms in my mind,
as I sleep the sleep of the blessed artist,
pinwheels of spinlets of gold of finest finery,
gold from the dresses of pouting princesses,
that spin and blossom in spires of artistic desire,
that make my third eye grow wet in perspire.
Gold leaflets of pages of musical notes,
sheafs of pages of pages of poetry,
they flow and turn their pages within my thoughts,
glory of music and poetry telling immortal stories,
that turn in sheafs of golden leaves,
that flow and flutter in the winds of mysterious time,
the pages of art turning for my mind to ponder and perhaps redesign.
Fluttering fauna of faerie tale words,
they whisper worlds of fantastc fare,
as my inner eye stares at the stars now rising,
constellations of imagination,
that swell in saguine supernovae of hope,
a hope for the world of the artist to flow forevermore.
I take the fiery lotus in my trembling hands,
sifting through the essence of those golden spinlets,
as the gold of those princesses dresses cast a spiders web,
that encases my third eyes desire to see all the world has to offer,
sanctifies it and offers it to the universe,
the dream of my artistic desire.
Those gold leafets of musical notes,
those sheafs of pages of poetry,
I write them into a diary of life,
a diary that rises as a new full moon in my consciousness,
as I desgin the desgin of reality with my imaginations daring,
my third eye standing still,
as it obsesses with my creation,
fixated in staring.
That saguine supernova,
its explosion of creation shaking my soul to the core,
this explosion of creation lets me see more,
more than I could have ever hoped to before,
and I see now that the universe has more to offer me,
than I ever thought that for my soul it held in store.
Let me sleep the sleep of the artist,
let me sleep in rhytmic engrams of mystery,
as those engrams imprint emblems of creations magic upon my soul,
and I shall extol its virtues,
I shall praise those virtues,
in every other night that come to pass in my lifes time,
that sweet sandman song of arts song most sublime.
Rhythmic sound of a distant train as it travels on an old section of track. It's lonesome
whistle, carried by the wind to my ears, pulls at something inside me.
The train and it's chorus fade off into the night.
But there is no silence. Not really. The tree fogs, toads, crickets and a myriad of other
insects fill the night with their voices. The only time they are silent is when an unknown
wanders too close. But then the silence is over, for they must sing to find love.
If I strain to hear, I can just make out the neighbors dog barking. At either a coyote,
raccoon, skunk or blowing leaf. Each must be dealt with by the same bark.
The kitchen clock keeps me company with it's ever true tick, tock, tick, tock.
Each tick tells me I am still awake. Each tock takes me deeper into the night.
Apparently, the bathroom sink needs a new washer. It's occasional drip a reminder.
The hum of the refrigerator when the ice maker kicks on. The chatter of newly formed
cubes as they empty into the hopper.
Lying next to me, my husbands breathing regular and strong. More comforting than
fresh washed sheets. To know he is beside me, puts me at ease.
But then he starts to snore. Not gently, nor quietly. Not something you can fall asleep
to.
So I rise and go to the living room. Closing the bedroom door behind me. I sit back on
the sofa and listen to our home talk to me. The turned of TV gives a static charged
click. The moths hurl themselves at the front window. Trying to reach the light I have
on inside. Tiny bodies and wings making curious "flit' noises as they hit the glass.
There is always the pop and groan of the house as it settles in for the night. Tonight is
no exception. One catches me unawares and scares about two years out of me.
I sit back on the sofa and try to let my mind go blank. Not as easily done as said. But
slowly, eventually, I am relaxing bit by bit. My eyes become drowsy. My limbs heavy. I
tip over where I sit to land my head on a soft sofa pillow. Then, finally, the sandman
takes pity on me and I sleep.
I thought I stood on top of the world
But it was only when I fell
That I realized how small I am
Every success feels unearned
And every failure long overdue
Lifelong passions feel like anchors
But I have nothing to replace them with
So I cling to them with the might of Zeus
Hoping to recapture the magic of yesterday
But maybe my brain just isn't what it used to be
When I fill my stomach with junk
And I fill my mind with poison
I feel compressed and mashed
I can see the stairway to Heaven
But do not deserve to walk those stairs
So I march down a highway to Hell
Weighted by a thousand burdens
Collected over years and years
I'm significantly older than when I began
But I'm marginally wiser than I was
And when I look at the clock
The time is the number of the beast
I'm not Bohemian and this isn't a rhapsody
The reality is I'm just a simple man
And in my chest nothing beats
All that is there is a heart-shaped box
Ruined by years of desolation and heartbreak
But still I dream on and walk like an Egyptian
I'm just not sure how much longer I can go
My mouth is parched and my skin is torched
All I want is to find somewhere I belong
Where I don't have to ask, "what is love?"
And not wonder what it would be like without me
Burdening everyone simply by existing
I'm just a man in the box in a nutshell
It's sad but true so I decided to beat it
And maybe one day I'll be fine again
But deep down all I want to do is sleep
So please, please enter sandman
Let me dream and feel the kiss from a rose
So I can wake with no more tears
That's when nothing else matters
And I'll be over the hills and far away
Perhaps even larger than life
Because I want it that way
And no, maybe I'll never stand
On top of the world ever again
But for a wolf like me
I'll go somewhere only we know
Knowing that out of the two of us
I'm the only owner of a lonely heart
But I'll sit there and I'll smile
Because U can't touch this
And as I sit there and put pen to paper
Maybe my passion is truly
The only thing that never abandoned me
Rather than crank up the heat...
and ratchet up global warming
like bubbling vegetable stew
with tsk... tsk... heard
courtesy Greta Thunberg,
who would utter "how dare you..."
I bundle with layers to stave off cold
energy efficiency drilled courtesy
me late mother conserving
nonrenewable resources she extolled
now ewe best heed following suggestion
wool worth 3d printing than wearing
a sheep doubled over
along dotted line to fold
cuz expending (fossil fuel)
leaving carbon footprint
would immediately being lectured
by ecology conscious eldest daughter,
(a University of Pennsylvania
biomedical engineering alumna)
who would mildly scold.
Myself and thee missus holed up
here within Highland Manor Apartments
(unit B44 in case you wanna drop me a line)
we're here moost every cold December day
sipping warm cup
of our favorite beverage
exotic coffee latte brew
suits this muttering pup
actually yours truly
a doggone ole
long haired pencil necked geezer.
He can be found moost any given warm Green Day
shuffling along boulevard of broken dreams
overhead skies colored rosy gunmetal gray
occasional huff fro zen cloud slashing solar ray
heating inside cozy nook,
though outside temperature brisk,
nevertheless for winter quite balmy
while I sit here heavily clad,
hence yours truly quite toasty within
perfect weather for wedding,
especially one hashtagged December/May.
After dusk i.e. established misnomer known as sunset
occurs 4:36 Post Meridiem heavens quickly turn jet
black today - Thursday, December 10, 2020 (EST)
whereby darkness lulls one into sleepiness, I bet
dollars to donuts impossible mission
to keep eyelids opened, particularly if sleep debt
necessary to pay the sandman,
who knows maybe you gotta get get
comfortably numb vis a vis temporarily unconscious
state, whereby dreaming of a white Christmas
analogous to eventual Elysian Fields,
where divine creator
conjuring Nirvana and/or
a place called Willoughby
if a believer, said Almighty eventually met.
One cold night, deep in thought, and curled in fright,
From folklore tales aimed to scare;
My rigid poise froze to a screeching noise
Outside, a voice not like I've heard before, to leave I would not dare
“It’s probably just an owl or creature of the night out there"
I muttered to myself, then pretended not to care
Oh, I recall quite vividly this icy Winter’s night
With grainy sight, the sandman came to lead me to his land
The weariness I fought but eventually he caught
Pulling me quite taut to somewhere far less bland
Where I became the leader of a marvellous brass band
And down that path sandman tightly gripped me by my hand
Trumpeters and trombone players played musically in layers
Exciting each and everyone, spreading joy to all around
But my dreams were playing tricks, my mind was in a mix
The bass tuba sounded sick, not playing tuneful sounds
Instead a grating shrill, then the whining of a hound
The lightning and the rain came too, my dream then ran aground
Alone I grew more frightened and the intensity just heightened
The shrieks and shrills grew louder with an occasional thunder clap
Taking sanctuary under bed sheets, preying for melodic sound beats
Suffering this painful feat, my soul took a massive slap
Oh how I longed for it to stop and to return me to my nap
The bleakness of that night, my mind caught in a trap
Morning later broke, the ground outside was soaked
The noise had faded but there was still a haunting in my ears
A crunch, a grind, a squeak a whine
The cause I vowed to find, and to take away my fears
From the upstairs window I saw a farmer crouched in tears
And a windmill's broken sails; the mystery closure neared
Across the muddy field, I approached the man kneeled
Sobbing over what appeared to be a dead Alsatian
He'd found it just lying there, the hound, his best friend
Downed by a falling windmill piece, killing gods creation
"A slow death" the farmer said "he must have cried out for attention"
"And my mill cranks broken causing noises of a nauseating sensation"