Mockingbird lives in a tree just outside our door —
and every spring he tells songful bedtime stories
about his ardent quest to find a mockingmaiden —
his lovely talented tales start with once upon a time
then it’s nonstop plot and plagiarism all night long
with the happy ending note sometime near dawn!
night 3am
three o’clock in the morning
Insomnia ticking
three o’clock —
anxiety, regret
in the depths of worry
swept away in the
whirlwind of nothing —
a horrible nothing
blackout poetry created from Octave Mirbeau, The Diary of
Windblown
The veil concealing truth gets windswept in the wee hours, revealing all to the silence of the night.
Tempus nunquam dormit
Three A.M. is when
all the quiet things
become loud —
the drip in the sink,
that clock on the wall,
our hearts, our minds.
What 45 feels like at 3 a.m.
Middle age — a stealthy, crafty nemesis.
Blaring quiet
A clock is ticking
in my living room —
I never even noticed
that it makes noise —
my mind is ticking,
my heart is ticking.
Everything quiet
is audible at 3 a.m.
Mocking my insomnia
We have now entered the birds-chirping-all-night season.
At two-fifty-nine
Prayer to the middle-of-the-night gods:
please let me sleep —
thank you for the beautiful moon
and winter silence
but please let me fall back to sleep —
no offense.
Amen.