Dancing up a storm in the sky, lightning bends dramatically. Thunder claps at her performance as she moves across the darkened stage. Bowing to the moon, she disappears into the night.
Stars return, peeking through clouds; they missed the commotion. The night watchman winks; he sees everything. Yawning, he bids farewell as the sun takes up its mantle, smiling at the dawning of a new day.
Why are we here? Tossing and turning…rattling the brain. Too many questions – Tedium. Anxiety knotting the stomach. Peace unsustainable. Sunken eyes, blinded by questions nobody else can give answers to. Let my heart rest! Why am I so blessed? Blessed to be a blessing!
Chasing stars, romanticised, til drooping eyes beg for peace. A million thoughts, fragmented dreams that pierce night skies… unwelcomed light. Shadowy shepherds herd their flocks. “One, two, three…” Engulfed in fog, they disappear. Missing sheep, have stolen sleep.
Stormy thoughts, monopolise, and bleary eyes are dazzled now. I’m chasing stars, and the sound of harps singing in the wind. Rolling over, stealth like motions, seeking out elusive sheep. A glimpse amidst the fog filled night; a bleat! “Sigh…” Those goats are not my sheep!
I wrote this poem at around 1:00 a.m. Frustration set in, as my insomnia took hold yet again. It’s something I have been dealing with all my life. It’s not the occasional missing a couple of hours of sleep, here and there. It’s several nights in a row, with only a few hours of sleep, here and there, if I’m lucky! I think I became delirious around 3:00 a.m., as it ended up becoming comical. Fortunately, it’s the weekend. Work days are the worst. We need to hit the road again! But that’s another story…
Have a wonderful week, everyone!
Don’t go down the rabbit hole. It’s ending unforeseen. Confusion takes a rapid turn when the whale becomes beached. Don’t satiate curiosity, a catastrophic tale. Don’t follow her to the shallow waters, lest your terminus be reached. Like poking at a funnel webs’ lair, expecting no response. The end may not be final, but the pain will be intense. Adventures are not rabbit holes yet easily confused. Racing down a sandy slope to meet the rabbit proof fence.
To the moon, to the moon! An unearthly desire to romance our pioneering spirits. Stripping nature of her innocence, intent on embarking on new frontiers. Rivers don’t look back as they forge their paths, carving new landscapes, unintentionally forming new habitats – Spectacularly spectacular!
A graffitied canvas, blemished by practising designers, scrubbing out original artwork, to quench the desire to carve out our own sculptures, paint our own pictures and build our own monoliths. There is nothing natural about them. They are not gifts to the land – Threateningly threatened!
Gently, gently! A yearning to intrude less, to live lightly. Our footprints matter, wash them away, ancient architect. Wanderers in time, pleading to leave little behind, besides hope for a better future for all. The thylacine, now a memory, preserved in a museum and depicted in rock art – Tragically tragic!
It doesn’t add a single day; brings sleepless nights and anxious dreams. A perplexed mind is haunted still, like swallowing a bitter pill. No trouble of one’s own to fear. The pain of others brings the tears. Yet no one knows the beating hearts of those who pull their worlds apart, to love and further others’ hopes, while their boat’s tied by mooring ropes.
What makes you feel nostalgic?
Music 🎶 from my youth! Dancing in a rollerdrome on my roller-skates or dancing barefoot on a white sandy beach with friends to the 1980s greatest hits in Australia. I hear something like “Down Under” by Aussie band, “Men at Work,” and it makes me smile. It evokes memories I thought had been engulfed by the inevitability of becoming a grown-up way too soon. I could go on forever, remembering moments when this song and numerous others were played loudly on a tape recorder or in a tape deck in the car… Nostalgia, sweet nostalgia, sing me a lullaby!
If you’re keen, finish this in a sentence or a paragraph. Here’s mine…
Life is like a bucket. It needs topping up regularly; an empty bucket may perish in the elements. A bucket full of holes is worthless. It can’t retain anything long enough to make a difference.
Her back is turned, and she doesn’t laugh out loud anymore. Quietly secluded, a stiff breeze is the only sound heard in the trees. It whispers to her, faintly insignificant in comparison. Tragically coexisting in time and space – significantly insignificant, a paradox.
FIGMENTS & IMAGINATION of Sharon Hughes 