The minutes turn into hours
And I toss and turn and long for sleep
The answer did not come in a bottle
So in my darkened room I lie and weep
Then slowly, so slowly, the fog begins to settle
And I realize the moment has come
Fearing I may disrupt this fragile aura
I lie so still waiting to succumb
A gentle tide carries me away
As I embrace the warmth of a rocking sea
I am lifted from my sorrow
And for a moment I'm free
It wasn't long, of that I'm sure
Terror invaded my dreams
Again and again I was pulled under
With no breath there were no screams
My eyes fly open and its early morn
My pillow and body soaked
Sheets so tangled I can barely escape
My license to sleep revoked
Hi Raelynn, you were recommended to me by my cousin Rose and after reading this stirring look into the reality of night I can see why. I look forward to reading more of your work in the future.
hugs
Fee
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
“The woman or man who is a poet, or fiction writer, or playwright, or all of these, is engaged constantly in a jazz ballet of vocabularies, passions, genders, histories, perspectives, death, love, and life. The music of revelation announces itself to
Mary Angela Nangini's poems celebrate the richness of life and love. From the city to cottage-country and the roads in between, Nangini explores the changing seasons of her varied region. (This book will soon be reprinted in hard cover.)
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hugs
Fee
Ty
Ch'erie
Be safe,
Karen
Rose