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Lucid Before Dawn

by Julie Adams


poems locked down
in the ward, my mind
convinced they're crazy

the same shows play daily
on the tube
beside the long, barred window,
poems stare out sometimes
over the rolling lawn, and remember
life before
before the self-medication
before the world closed in
before the shock therapy of the 9 to 5
rendered them catatonic
is there a tonic for this state
of apathy
even a pill perhaps
to lure some lucid thought to paper,
these poems linger
just beyond the paper's edge
they threaten to drip, drip drip
like the whirring air-conditioner
in the corner, they dwindle here
some will never leave
lost in the fog
of psychology and rationale
rendered immobile,
fortunately
one or two, like this one
like the changing wind
will fly
from the cuckoo's nest

and escape
into the dark
just before dawn


01/04/2009

Author's Note: Not really happy with the title still, so any input welcome.

(wtg workshop with Jon)

Posted on 01/04/2009
Copyright © 2024 Julie Adams

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gregory O'Neill on 01/04/09 at 08:00 PM

Our own person cage, protecting, but limiting. I think we all want out of it...it's either too quiet or it's deafening. There is not much room for middle ground. Your final strophe gives release. Delighted. Thanks.

Posted by Lacy D Phillips on 01/04/09 at 11:29 PM

Some days we're just too sane to write. I'm in love with the "shock therapy of the 9 to 5" line.

Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 01/05/09 at 01:20 AM

Just before dawn (last line) would be a good title. You look at the creative process from a different and fresh perspective.

Posted by Christina Bruno on 01/05/09 at 02:07 AM

i always feel like poems are locked somewhere inside of me and i am just waiting,and waiting. i wishi could write like a used to write. this poem just reminded me of that.

Posted by Joe Cramer on 01/05/09 at 02:38 AM

... this is exceptional... I loved it Jewels, I could not rate it high enough!

Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/06/09 at 01:06 PM

pencil and paper, canvas and paint were my thing, and singing, until words entered the scene, and I don't remember inviting them in, they sort of crashed the party. but now that there are here, they sort of have taken over everything. sort of become lord and master over poor ole me. but though we struggle through the process, would we have it any other way, Julie? the muse chose well, when she chose you, as this poem attests.

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