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Slumber Beckon
by Alison McKenzie
Beyond the thin layer of a late hour,
I feel the familiar rumblings
Of words on the edge of boil,
Up from the bottom
To the surface
To the sky
To the moon and
Back.
I will lay my head to rest,
Though the art pulls
Thoughts to fingers
Until the release of black on white
Stretches me to peace.
The arc of days
Can be unkind,
But the ink of night, cool
And full of dreams,
Of expanded spaces
And laughter;
The wonder of whims,
Whirls me to morning;
The chimes urge me to rise again
To meet another Now,
During which I become mindful again
Of shifting tides
And hourglass moments.
03/06/2011 Author's Note: Nana: Do you know how much I love you Atreyu? Atreyu: Yeah, Nana. All the way up to the sky. Nana: And to the MOON, Treybug. Atreyu: AND back, Nana? Nana: Yeah, and all the way back buddy.
Posted on 03/07/2011
Copyright © 2024 Alison McKenzie
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 03/08/11 at 05:40 PM I love this. It is so very true for me. My recent howl "I'm not dead yet" came to me at 3 in the morning - having a nightmare of feelings about something my brother-in-law had said at the restaurant that evening. Writing the poem was the only thing that gave me rest and made better dreams possible. I also really relate to the last five lines, especially about rising "to meet another now." Wonderful, Ali, thanks a bunch. |
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