creativity · photography · poetry · writing

Night Travels

Night lifts,
morning slipping
through blinds,
soul returning
from nightly foray,
body awakening,
a vague sense
of disconnection –
admit it,
you know this.

aging · disability · ME/ CFS · poetry · writing

All But Comatose

If death is sleep
then surely I am close –
body leaden
refuses to budge,
brain a slow crawl

I would feel something –
remorse, fear, confusion –
but the weight of slumber
has numbed senses,
reaction sludge

only a drum, drum
of heart harkens
life’s continued spark –
What thread of will
keeps me hanging on,
surely sleep preferable?

(Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is characterized by exhaustion after exertion.  The fatigue is systemic. )

disability · mental-health · poetry

Tired

so tired…

the heaviness of slumber
settles on me like a straight jacket –
no point resisting…

was it a poisoned apple
that struck me so –
or is this exhaustion
emblematic…

of what….
a soul aspiring to flight
weighted down by sensitivity…

an ego tied to ideals
no more salient than balloons
whose once inflated bodies
now pollute the landscape…

I am withered…

lifeless…

breath shallow…

pulse irregular…

cursing the elusiveness of sleep…

suspended in a tortuous limbo,
mocked by vitality,
scorned by ambition,
loathed by the hale…

is there purpose
to this perpetual cycle…
a message
carved within the walls
of this fleshy tomb…
cryptic whispers
buried deep beneath
the hardening layers of fog…

no strength here
to decipher riddles…
encumbered by lassitude,
like an iron blanket
smothering desire…

even weeds will push
through concrete barriers
follow the sun’s rays
to find life…

why then can’t I…

…so tired….

(Image from personal collection)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

health · Humour

Come Back, Mr. Sandman

He’s comes each day at seven,
wearing the cloak of night
humming a lulling lullaby
hypnotically taunting me
with the dance of fatigue.

I resist, of course,
too early for sleep,
brush off his advances
busy myself, pretending
he doesn’t matter to me.

He pulls me onto the bed
lures me with shady promises
Just close your eyes, Love,
rest your weary head awhile;
I won’t keep you long.

I push away, incensed
by the indecency of it –
no one goes to bed so early!
What does he think I am?
Who does he think I am?

He shrugs and tips his hat
letting himself out as
quietly as he came.
See you tomorrow Babe;
you know I’ll be back.

I shake off his residue
slap myself out of his reverie,
ready myself for another night –
of what – monotonous routine?
Did I really have a better plan?

By ten I’ve caught up on the pvr
and restlessness sets in –
should I start a new book,
sketch a thing or two,
or eat to ease the blahs?

I choose, instead, to write
this silly poem, hoping to
soothe this aching regret
for chasing away the Sandman
I’ve bought myself a guarantee
that slumber will not be mine.

 

health

Day 257 “Watercourse”

You’d think that sleep would be my friend.
Like a lover she would seduce me,
lulling me into her black oblivion,
coaxing me into her ocean of darkness
a current of ever-changing images
gently rocking and soothing:
restoration.

You’d think that sleep would be my friend,
But she is a multi-armed demon
tossing me from shore to shore
taunting me with her liquid blackness
abandoning me, exhausted and spent
the last laps of receding tide washing over me,
as dawn’s first rays ignite.

If sleep is an ocean,
then I am the castaway,
capsized,
stranded,
hopeless.

How did this shipwreck occur?
What sin did I perpetuate,
To set me on this tumultuous course.
What sacrifice must my soul make
For sleep to once again be my friend?

disability · health · Humour · poetry

Harmonics

6:30 a.m. alarm sounds.
“Time to wake up!” conditioned Compliance commands.
“Just a little longer,” Sensibility suggests.
Guilt, like an incessantly annoying child
tugs on Conscience:
“Come on, there’s lots to do!”
Body does not respond.

Sleep wins
and dreams come:
homeless,
relying on friends,
no food,
backed up toilet,
children’s wide eyes fearfully imploring
When is this all going to end?

Guilt propels a return to consciousness.

8:25 a.m.
“Up and at ’em! There’s a good soldier!” Compliance attempts to be chipper.
“There’s really nothing more important than rest,” Sensibility suggests.
“Can’t lie in bed all day!” Guilt counters.
But body is MIA.

Dreams surface again:
Setting up house in a thoroughfare,
people coming and going, oblivious to intrusion,
co-workers indifferent,
eyes scolding; convicting.

Guilt mutates to rage,
Body wakes up with a choking cough, and gasping,
reaches for the rescue inhaler
and sucks in, desperate for air.

11:11 am.
“That’s it! Up you get!”
“No! No! Rest is needed!”
“The day is wasted! There’s no getting it back!’

“SILENCE!” A new voice emerges.

A collective intake of breath.

“Breathe,” comes the message. “Just breathe.”

A unified sigh.

“And breathe again.”

Tempers cool, and emotions begin to settle.

“What’s going on?” Guilt wonders.
“Just trying to stick to routine,” Compliance explains.
“It’s always been this way.”
“But she’s ill now,” Sensibility adds, “and there needs to be concessions.”

“Breathe,” the voice reasserts, and all sigh again.
“Just be in the stillness of the moment.”

Stillness has no voice.
Its language is compassion and infinite,
infinite wisdom.

“And surrender.”

Compliance sobs with the release of such enormous obligation.
Sensibility gratefully gives over the burden of responsibility,
and Guilt…..well Guilt is little,
and happily snuggles up to Unconditional Love.

“There, there,” Voice soothes, “isn’t harmony so much better?”

Body concurs and rises out of bed.