A poet’s blessing

Presented with and without line breaks. See below ** for 'without.'

Was either one worth the time it took to read? If it took a little longer, I think that it's because you found some poetry in the words or maybe just a line or two. If you want to read it again, sometime, it's good enough to call it poetry. If you share it with someone, it's definitely a poem. If someone reads it after I'm dead, it's a classic. Not likely. 

Poetry is in the eye of the beholder. I beheld and then I wrote some words. It was at least worth my time to write. I think I caught a little something, but was it poetry? 

What dumb questions. When you read a good poem, you'll know. But a good guess will often do for a little while.

A poet's blessing

May you wake up

to sweet dreams

in the night.

Sometimes, I wake up,

thinking of you.

The sights

and sounds

had dripped in

while I slept

half-soundly,

until you tripped,

sleep-walking

over my pillow.

I might as well try

to close my eye

and ears to

running water.

So I got up

after contemplating

whispering words leaking

to try jiggling the handle.

I turned on a light,

so I wouldn’t stumble

and I opened a notebook

just in case.

And memories of you

came flooding out.

I jammed my pen

into the paper -

it was no use -

the words weren’t there,

but I could hear them still

dripping and dripping

somewhere close

behind me.

I closed my eyes.

I thought that I could sleep

sitting up just as well.

I could empty the bucket

under the trap in the morning.

But I had forgotten the light,

the color through my lids,

reminded me of who

wasn’t sleeping in my bed

tonight beside me.

So a minute or an hour

later,  I was making some notes.

Nevermind,

I had only been sleeping anyway.

I’ll probably have nothing better to do

in the morning.

The sun will come up,

whether I notice it or not.

But sometimes it, too

reminds me of you.

How can it be

that everything makes me think

of you

and everything else

when I’m merely minding my business -

a non-profit walking on shoe strings?

And you can take three steps

and look the other way

and you are sleep slipping

blissfully over into forgetfulness

and rest without me.

Now my meandering is taking me

nowhere,

perhaps there’s something

in the kitchen.

And then something itches,

and I scratch my nose,

and I remember how I ground

cumin in the grinder,

shortly before you left.

The cumin smelled so much like cumin

that tears came to my eyes,

and seeds and aromas of

cumin-colored words

must have tickled and drifted into

my nostrils and dozed

waiting in my mind

for the moment when

I would get some

water to drink.

And songs lie in wait, too:

‘Hello darkness,

my old friend…’

Then I sat by the keyboard

and waited for the boot,

and then the cat jumped into my lap.

I felt her fur

under my hand,

so soft, so not like your hair

that I looked bewildered

into my screen.

Words everywhere, like

dust motes not settling,

nothing fits.

But my blue shirts only match my blue eyes

when you are looking.

Silence is the sound

of remembering,

sometimes.

Solitude and solace

walk hand in hand.

Absence is the presence

in between my steps.

Fortunately, I have you

to remind me of

everything.

So why should I seek words

when I should be sleeping

and when I awaken

I shall find you missing?

Perhaps sooner,

than later,

I will see you again

and the face I touch softly

will not be my own.

And then I’ll put shoes

on my other feet

and I will leave you,

watching me go

to find you when I

come back again.

It’s simple, really,

everything makes me think

of everything

and you make me want

to want to sleep in my bed.

The world is half full

if you’re a poet

and emptiness fills

the glass to the rim.

Words are only a way

to express something

and sometimes,

everything spills over.

Waking is better than sleeping,

sometimes, but sometimes I can’t

keep my eyes open.

And sometimes I can

only look at everything

with eyes

open for beauty.

And then beauty finds me

for love.

It’s simple, really,

I’ll say it again.

I’m not caught in

a web of words,

I just use them to prop my eyes open,

so that I can see everything more clearly.

Beauty is not so hard to see,

catching some is a poet’s luck.

And sleeping is better

when love breathes tenderly.

So now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Mystery my soul to keep.

And if I wake before I die,

Look into my eye

And tell me I’m still

dreaming.                  

**

A poet’s blessing

Without line breaks

May you wake up to sweet dreams in the night.

Sometimes, I wake up, thinking of you.

The sights and sounds had dripped in while I slept half-soundly, until you tripped, sleep-walking over my pillow.

I might as well try to close my eye and ears to running water.

So I got up after contemplating whispering words leaking to try jiggling the handle. I turned on a light, so I wouldn’t stumble and I opened a notebook just in case.

And memories of you came flooding out.

I jammed my pen into the paper - it was no use - the words weren’t there, but I could hear them still dripping and dripping somewhere close behind me.

I closed my eyes. I thought that I could sleep sitting up just as well. I could empty the bucket under the trap in the morning. But I had forgotten the light, the color through my lids, reminded me of who wasn’t sleeping in my bed tonight beside me.

So a minute or an hour later,  I was making some notes. Nevermind, I had only been sleeping anyway. I’ll probably have nothing better to do in the morning. The sun will come up, whether I notice it or not.

But sometimes it, too reminds me of you.

How can it be that everything makes me think of you and everything else when I’m merely minding my business - a non-profit walking on shoe strings? And you can take three steps and look the other way and you are sleep slipping blissfully over into forgetfulness and rest without me.

Now my meandering is taking me nowhere, perhaps there’s something in the kitchen. And then something itches, and I scratch my nose, and I remember how I ground cumin in the grinder, shortly before you left.

The cumin smelled so much like cumin that tears came to my eyes, and seeds and aromas of cumin-colored words must have tickled and drifted into my nostrils and dozed waiting in my mind for the moment when I would get some water to drink.

And songs lie in wait, to: ‘Hello darkness, my old friend…’

Then I sat by the keyboard and waited for the boot, and then the cat jumped into my lap. I felt her fur under my hand, so soft, so not like your hair that I looked bewildered into my screen. Words everywhere, like dust motes not settling, nothing fits. But my blue shirts only match my blue eyes when you are looking.

Silence is the sound of remembering, sometimes. Solitude and solace walk hand in hand. Absence is the presence in between my steps.

Fortunately, I have you to remind me of everything.

So why should I seek words when I should be sleeping and when I awaken I shall find you missing? Perhaps sooner, than later, I will see you again and the face I touch softly will not be my own. And then I’ll put shoes on my other feet and I will leave you, watching me go to find you when I come back again.

It’s simple, really, everything makes me think of everything and you make me want to want to sleep in my bed.

The world is half full if you’re a poet and emptiness fills the glass to the rim.

Words are only a way to express something and sometimes, everything spills over.

Waking is better than sleeping, sometimes, but sometimes I can’t keep my eyes open. And sometimes I can only look at everything with eyes open for beauty. And then beauty finds me for love.

It’s simple, really, I’ll say it again. I’m not caught in a web of words, I just use them to prop my eyes open, so that I can see everything more clearly.

Beauty is not so hard to see, catching some is a poet’s luck. And sleeping is better when love breathes tenderly.

So now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Mystery my soul to keep.

And if I wake before I die,

Look into my eye

And tell me I’m still

dreaming.