Long Tossing and turning Poems
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(amar sakal dukher pradip)
Thistle Thal, My reverie floral, beyond the valley and greenery, handheld delight, the sun
Incomplete ritualistic my pain, meditation to be fulfilled in completion
Whence the day is done and the returning birds are back to the nest, very own.Bestowed
Dusk of the twilight hue heard the bell, still afterglow dispersing the beset, even though
Then my last log will be my solitary feast, the fire of the divine, my life
A festive fire will have my pliant knead, and a plethora of my remnants chime!
.Shinangan through shenandoah , knew us through delighted knickknack, canopy
The fullest brim is tossing and turning to greet you whence wilmette, wills met a noon
The festive fire will lit up starlight one by one , aurora borealis, the kindled and the boon
They’all a rise together to the superlative, in chorus, a hymn, on the eve, beseeching
The flight of a song , the sunset, and the reason, and the resilient passion of yearning !
Every night as i'm laying in my bed
These uneasy feelings surround me
I feel the strangeness of them all around
And though i look there's nothing I can see
All night they have me tossing and turning
Making it impossible for me to go to bed
Relentlessly these feelings torment me
By putting thoughts of you inside my head
I grab the phone and dial your number
And listen, and hope you pick up the phone.
I need to talk to you i need your help
You can control these things i'm not shown
As we talk these feelings leave me be
I let you know i can't wait to see you again
And I hope the love you have for me
It's strong enough to make it until then
We tell each other how much we care
As well as how much the others missed
And when our conversation has ended
Our phones are the ones that get kissed
I listen as you slowly hang up your line
That's my sign to hang up the telephone
That's when the feelings swarm on back
I guess it's only the feeling of being alone
There is a heatwave in my bowels
I want to write of it, every detail.
So I’ve been looking to the sky waiting for the sea to swallow the sun,
To show their is no urgency in matters of love
For masterworks take time to be made with sheer precision.
There is a lady I want to say my love to this evening,
She is green ribbon ticket and her heart is my jackpot,
Iron is iron
And is only as sharp as what rubs against it
So I’ve been tossing and turning with the lust of my heart....
We’ve built a friendship that outshines the city of Pompeii,
And now I quiver to the thought of setting fire on her flammable heart,
But there is still a lady I want to say my love to,
She is the daughter of a carpenter,
Her father has designed crutches for the man who is to break her heart,
And in my dreams we dance barefoot on grains of sand as I show her the star I am to name in her honor,
But this evening there is a lady I want to say my love to,
I’m plucking the courage to do so as I write this.
My internal clock is a bane to me
waking me from dreams of paradise
thrusting me into life's stark reality
not allowing sleep when closing my eyes
No matter how many hours of sleep I need
I wake between three and four o'clock
Eyes wide open, blood red as if they bleed
I lie awake, listening to the clock... tick tock
My thoughts run through a gambit of things
that insist on keeping me tossing and turning
Is there truth in believing angels have wings?
I welcome Dawn but for sleep I am yearning
There are times when I pace in soft candlelight
hoping my lids grow heavy with need of sleep
but it's not to be... haunting reveries take flight
refusing me the restful peace of slumber deep
In these times of quiet hours of early morn
when blurry eyed, I pick up my pen and write
rhymed verses in which I chastise and scorn
my internal clock that wakes me before daylight
The nights are dark..
The nights are long
Full moon glowing..
Many sleepless nights ..
Tossing and turning
Eyes are wide opened..
Insomniac events explodes..
Desperation sets in..
An invasion of fear..
Body is fatigued
Deep dark thoughts multiplies..
Delerium is my friend..
As distortions occur through the night..
A never ending night..
An eternity it seems..
A battle with insomnia
Hoping and praying for shut eye..
The sleep state awaits me..
It has been over due...
The dream state awaits me ..
Followed by the various sleep cycles..
A tranquil, peaceful, calming sleep..
Awaits..
Tranquility soon shall dominate insomnia..
A battle with insomnia shall end
Defeating insomnia along with sleepless nights..
A beautiful vision of sweet dreams awaits..
I think all poets
know the refrain:
“May he rest in peace...”
The blessed phrase,
Known to every card
writer; to every jingle
reciter – even Clay, the
Fighter, quite The Poet,
feared no man's blow when
impulsed to show it.
And more serious poets,
the bulk of our many, ponder
through night after restless
night, the heartfelt subjects of
world peace and world blight;
tossing and turning, minds
flexing and burning...
upon one dear
poet's funeral – the last dirt-pile
shoveled – ground neatly patted,
nearly leveled; following the priest's
eloquent benediction of Word,
a poet's wife's mutter was clearly heard:
her eyes quite red, darkened as if applied
circles of black lithium grease “Now, perhaps,
finally!~I can Rest In Peace....”
take my outstretched hand,
follow me d
o
w
n...
to a place
of beauty and happiness
that no one else knows.
in this world of infinite madness,
turned upside down,
nothing makes sense.
let's spirit away
from here, now...
yes, come with me, my true.
where we're going
we'll make a loaf
out of crumbs of chaos
that is life, as is.
j e t t i s o n,
all that you carry,
your gnawing quotidian troubles,
shake loose the monkey on your back,
elephantine encumbrances,
mentally and spiritually,
weighing you down.
after all the deafening noise
of hustle and bustle,
after a mighty-long day
of slaying a thousand or more
internal dragons
that left you feeling
cut down to size.
I know a place of peace
to refuel you moribund fire,
to blink yourself away
without tossing and turning.
when you rise at dawn,
you do not complain
about the forces against you.
you don't argue with any fool,
you don't fight a single monster.
seraphs strum their harps
as we foxtrot in the rain
and sing in the sunshine.
there is a place in my heart;
through a secret gateway, you enter...
a safe space
meant just for thee...
walk right in, anytime
and repose comfortably
with yours truly.
Sometimes when it's late.
I turn over and want to call you.
I never do.
Believing that it's best I let you rest.
In reality I need to hear your voice so I too
Can nod off into a decent sleep.
Otherwise I am tossing and turning thinking of you.
It doesn't have to stop there.
This late night call.
Ignoring the middle of the day.
Longing to hear you melt.
Even if you can't talk.
To tell you that I've found a place that I want to stay.
And that I hope you have too.
To wish you a good night.
The best kind of therapy.
A call that leads to spreading the night in your arms.
Finding the sun at night.
To tell you I love you before dozing off.
Tossing and Turning
Night does not come gently anymore—
it arrives heavy, like a question I refuse to answer.
I lie between breaths and truth,
caught in the quiet war of what is felt
and what is only received.
You love me—
not in fragments, not in hesitation,
but in full, unguarded offering,
like open hands that never learned to close.
And I…
I stand there, holding everything,
feeling the weight of gold I never asked for,
afraid to drop it,
afraid to keep it.
There is a kindness in you
that makes my silence feel like cruelty.
A gentleness that turns my uncertainty
into something almost unforgivable.
Because how do you wound
what has only ever healed you?
How do you turn away
from a heart that never turned from you?
So I stay—
not out of love,
but out of fear dressed like loyalty.
Not out of longing,
but out of the trembling thought
that leaving you might break something
that cannot be mended.
And so I toss—
between honesty and hesitation,
between truth and the comfort of pretending.
I turn—
away from the mirror of your devotion,
away from the echo of a feeling
that refuses to grow inside me.
You deserve a fire,
and I am only a flicker
trying not to go out.
You deserve certainty,
and I am a doorway
that never fully opens.
Still, you remain—
loving me in ways I cannot return,
waiting in spaces I cannot fill.
And I, restless in borrowed warmth,
keep rearranging my conscience
like sheets that will not settle.
Morning always comes,
but it brings no answers—
only the same quiet ache,
the same unspoken truth:
that love, when not returned,
becomes a place
where both hearts slowly lose their way.
NB: Written for a friend to a friend
By Parizo Van Thulare
Hard as a rock of sedimentary
Groundwrecking as a C4 from the millitary
It was head over heels
Sometimes the clouds went nine
Emotions were on the line
The rain was on strike
Nothing was fine
The Forging of feelings
The Wiping of tears
The walk of shame
Pain with no gain
Endless hours of tossing and turning
Gone are those days
When i felt caged in love
Gone are those days
When you gambled with my thoughts
I used to think you are one
I sacrificed so much but i was taken for none
I was wrong ,Love is not a disease
You become vulnerable when you misuse it
Those days are gone dear
You wont see me near