Watching the twos, threes and fours
of the morning clock.
The sixty second minutes, as they
count the hours off.
Sleep eludes me,
sleep deludes me.
Five is here,
in its cold, dark hour,
Five now passing into six
and still I sit,
unsleeping.
My insomnia wakes me,
my insomnia hates me.
Mind muddled, befuddled
hours awake,
hours reading,
hours doing everything but sleeping
crawling on my knees
to the dawn queen.
Lying there in the dark
looking at every darkened shape
of every angle of every wall
and feel every stubbed toe
on every piece of furniture
lying there in the dark;
like me.
Alarm clock; you are redundant,
again. As ever.
Your services are limited
except when you tell me
how long I’ve been lying there awake.
As I crawl on my knees
to the dawn queen.
Another tip of the hat to Morgen Bailey and this time her poetry prompts. “the dark kitchen” immediately took my fancy and this time I had it down in less than a third of the allotted time. Once again, thanks for that Morgen.
The Dark Kitchen
The dark kitchen
The darker drawers
The still darker knives,
Each telling their story
The darkened oven
Black from the roasts
The un-cleaned fat
That spat; and sizzled.
The dark old woman
Dressed all in black
Black widow in waiting
Black venom giving
The death-grey husband
Now ever in the dark
Her dark kitchen her web
Her poison pernicious
The dark pantry
Away from the light
Locked in tight
Opened only at night
When all is black
Firelight, flame dance
shadow tango, flicker bright
Light, blaze and burn away
the cold, dark winter night
The cold black winter night
of frost, snow and ice
of chilled bones gently warmed,
reading by the firelight
Reading by the firelight
Shadow tango, pages white
Let your warmth envelope me
and burn away this cold, dark night
January;
gloved and hatted
walk.
Frosted breath,
then, finally
the warmth.
Then cold
that condences
on glass,
rivulets running.
The dark:
getting darker, and
crowned
by white.
The cold;
to the touch,
to the senses.
How I enjoy
a pint of Guinness
My Words, My World 