Last night I was a somnambulist.
I strolled about in a snowy white mist,
then took to swinging on a branch
that I found upon our 3-acre ranch.
I told my dad, it was very weird.
He said it was the strangest thing he'd heard.
I replied, "I'll snap out of it and clear my head".
I woke up to find it was a dream instead.
Categories:
somnambulist, dream,
Form: Rhyme
I peacefully live in the mind of my own
Moving carefully and calmly
Behind my house lies a great unknown
I’m a regular there when I’m lonely
I tiptoe, closing the door at command
My inner voice tells me to go
I know the way, like a palm of my hand
With closed eyes, I move along
Passing the streets, where I’ve been long before
I distinguish smells of the night
But I can’t say what my journey is for
And it could be raining outside
If you see me near, don’t pay attention
Don’t wake me up, if you can
If you call me, I’ll fall into dreamless descension
Never to rise up again.
Categories:
somnambulist, crazy, romantic,
Form: Rhyme
SOMNAMBULIST
She stood before me in the mist,
That beautiful somnambulist.
Eyes open, yet I doubt she saw me,
In the mist she stood before me.
She was dressed in night attire,
Designed to set men’s hearts afire
And I was suitably impressed.
In night attire she was dressed.
Her feet were bare, he toenails red,
Just as she had left her bed.
She could die from hypothermia there,
Her toenails red, her feet were bare
I draped my mac around her shoulder,
Before the lass got even colder.
Then took her hand and led her back.
Around her shoulder I draped my mac
She lived at number forty-eight, I knew,
The one where white magnolias grew.
Her mother waited at the gate
I knew she lived at number forty-eight.
Next day she came to my front door
To thank me for the night before.
And now we are marrying in May.
To my front door she came next day
14th June 2020
Swap Quatrain contest
Sponsor - Emile Pinet
Categories:
somnambulist, cool,
Form: Quatrain
Behold the fate of one who chose the night
for writing poems. Poet fell asleep,
I mean, he thinks he's sleeping. He can cite
Baudelaire asleep or calculate the sheep
that graze on misty pastures of his mind,
call forth a lethargy, sleep of the dead,
oblivion. He vainly tries to find
a rhyme with sleeplessness: gets out of bed
and walks around the house sorting through
alternatives. He weighs them on the scale
of lunacy, he reasons but the true
and only reason comes to no avail.
Asleep, somnambulist, you did the best
that you could do and let me do the rest.
Categories:
somnambulist, inspiration, poetry, sleep,
Form: Rhyme
Somnambulist walks
The streets; never wakes
Till someone stops him.
Take him home asleep;
It's much easier.
No memory
Of whom he is
Or wherever
Remains in mind.
Consciousness
Achieved on
His own, breeds
Success;
A clear
Mind.
Categories:
somnambulist, confusion, dream, health, night,
Form: Diminished Hexaverse
Somnambulist’s Awakening
the malamute ceiling flying in my hearing
buzzes my acrid thoughts with the climaxed annoyance
when the shadowy light lifted in the nightmare
Einstein in Grayling jumps into nothingness
tasting his own fear
“Relativity, my dear Watson” he mumbles
he touches it touching me.
the Everest with obsidian face calls
“For ever, ever, never.”
is the relativity of tomorrow
and the numbers are shredding in mirror formation
without meaning for today.
Categories:
somnambulist, lost,
Form: Blank verse
Walking through an unknown zone where no one is known day’s somnambulist
Categories:
somnambulist, missing,
Form: Monoku
There’s her sweet, succulent
voice soothing your sorrows
in your ear.
Like soliloquies, soft
sonatas surround your once
dark shadows.
What compares to the composition
of music? Of operatic opposition?
Of triads and miscommunication,
the minor scales know not what to say
when the evening slides away.
You’re asleep, though not dreaming.
I suppose you never do,
just when the sky began to turn white,
it rained again misty blue.
I’m cold,
but not for you.
I think of young Amadeus
in his prime,
he’d never guess I’d turn him
to rhyme.
We’d could create clever jokes
together, near the volcanoes of
Italy,
I’d be his best symphony.
Then,
I’d wake up from this dream.
Categories:
somnambulist, art, introspection, life, music
Form: Free verse