Snow Angels

There's something about waking up to snow, its resolute silence perhaps, the stillness of grey over sky scrapers, the elegance of a city dressed in white, that after six years of having seen it for the first time, still makes me swoon like a first kiss. There's something about your kiss first thing in the morning, breathing you in before waking the day, that not even a lifetime of morning romances and snow petals on windowsills can ripen.

For Insomniacs

I am up with a case of the slightly insane, 
product of another sleepless night, 
and torturous rounds of counting 
herds of sheep
forward 
and backward,
and side to side.
It seems I have been turning 
to the rhythm of the world's 
    Chaos. 

I've rendered myself to every edge 
of this bed, like a desperate mistress.
It has touched every crevice and curve 
my body has to offer, 
held the weight of these bones
soaked in tears of panic and fright, 
watched me sell my soul to the night, 
as I twist and squirm like a worm 
UnDer a MiCrOsCoPE

Why does it feel like the loneliest 
place under the stars 
is a forest in my head 
infested with thoughts the daylight 
has no courage to shine upon?
Minutes crawl like slugs toward dusk, 
draped by a cloud of fast and anxious hours, 
     (Five minutes since I last checked,
       Three hours before sunrise)
and I'm here 
unawake in a sleep without dreams, 
yet still unable of succumbing to 
SILENCE. 

My wife rests by my side; 
I am not warmed by her loving heart, 
nor soothed by her breathing,
but seethed by an envy 
and a need to latch on, 
buckle my knees, 
rope my arms to hers, and beg her
to take me along to that realm 
my mind cannot find 
you people call
"SLEEP" 

"The horror has come now like a storm—what if this night prefigured the night after death—what if all thereafter was an eternal quivering on the edge of an abyss, with everything base and vicious in oneself urging one forward and the baseness and viciousness of the world just ahead. No choice, no road, no hope—only the endless repetition of the sordid and the semi-tragic. Or to stand forever, perhaps, on the threshold of life unable to pass it and return to it. I am a ghost now as the clock strikes four"

Sleeping and Waking, by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ptanksters

I went out to the forest
To soften my soul among the ancient
Trees and leaves and birds
Sifting songs of spirits
Like dust of the earth

I went out to the woods
Not knowing what I'd find,
Blind but nimble bat of daylight was I,
Hoping home was made of essence, not edifice
Seeking shelter with no rooms, sanctuary with no walls

Morning bloomed like infant flowers,
And Sun sprinkled its shine upon my skin,
Its rays, like tentacles, feeding fortitude, dispensing clarity
And the bumble bee blessed me with a dance
And whispered electric prophecy before fluttering away

At noon I drank from sacred streams,
Refreshed myself with rain water,
And spent many breaths,
For hours had been forgotten,
Held by a carpet of grass,
Soothed by the shadow of a willow

And I awoke to find that all around me were
Wizards
And Spirits
And Skies,
And many other beaming beings
With smiles in their eyes,
Plucking guitar strings,
Wearing tall hats, rainbow colors,
Bearing a light as warm as kindness

And we loved under the brilliant eye of Jupiter,
Grew tender under vigilant Mother Moon.
It seemed to me I had lived this moment many orbits ago,
Found a footprint of the past the size of my shoe,
And was here to gather
With sisters and brothers in the land
Of magic,
To dance to the beat
Of unity.

From the bridge, the city looked as if you could scoop it with cupped hands.

She was no longer the damsel of the big screen and the big words, but rather a specter cloaked in symbols and metaphors to the individual imagination, a stubborn unreality one refuses to let go of. Slain by the weight of a thousand ideals, battered by the strengths of our youths and impracticalities, she became less of a charmer and more of a chain to the disilussioned dreamer. Stoic as her statue still, yet tired and wrinkled, she could no longer feed our fire with her bright lights, her innocuous flame.

-gypsywrites

Rainy Nights

My love lives in moments that have nothing to show for themselves,
Like that one time we were part of a play your friend had written;
You played five seconds of Come Together on your guitar,
I played the xylophone for the first time,
Chiming away, like bells on Christmas Eve.
You held my hand all night,
Let me rest my head on your shoulder,
Give you short kisses on your sleeves
         Every once in a while,
And every time you looked at me you smiled,
With a tenderness that spelled love with no vocabulary,
The edge of your smile crating dimples on your cheek.

The walk home past midnight,
Eyes heavy, shoes wet,
Cold.
Getting stoned on our bed,
Eating granola bars and BJs donuts,
Watching family guy out of your phone (this was the time of no computers),
Drinking milk like little kids,
Shutting the door to let the others sleep,
And to keep ourselves for each other.
Only.
Moments that have nothing to show for themselves other than a mutual laugh
     Or two,
An inside joke about our toes,
Minutes spent aroused by the sound of words like freckles,
(Your freckled shoulders always turn me on)
Rubbing our noses against each other like baby cats,
And falling asleep buried in your arms as you wrote your novel.
You always did what I wish I could have done.
But I loved you still and more,
Because rain tapped against the window pane like corn kettle,
(Remember the time we disagreed about that simile?)
And I had the night, a roof, and a closed door
To keep ourselves to each other.
Only.

-LBCH