Wednesday, June 05, 2013


(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995.  I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.)


Day breaks
                And unrested, alone I wake.
I rise with slumber’s rage

Without the pillow of another spine,
My arms around a chest entwined:
Sleep leaves me best when I arise
With another -
                and shower and wash
                away the night’s devotion,
Massages me with body lotion;
Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -
                I am soon unclouded of morning mists.

Yet this day crests,
                And alone am I, too.

And I say
                “Poor me”.

                “Poor you.”


Kelly said...

It's only been in recent years (say, the last 10 or so) that I've grown to appreciate poetry. I find this quite nice!!

jeanie said...

Thanks Kelly - I think the key to liking poetry is realising that you don't have to like all poetry. That frees you greatly.

Debby said...

I am so glad that these days you have the pillow of another spine. But if you are anything like me, my rising still comes with a very small side dish of shine.