Sunday, June 20, 2010

Birth

Night time is kind of a strange time to be awake in.
The half moon comes and goes as the night time clouds float on by.
The silence of the night is always eerie as every sound is amplified so much that one would think a party was going on.
One spends most of it trying to hide the noise so as not to wake those that sleep. Yet they sleep no matter what.
The mind wanders at these times thinking of things said during the evening hours.Not that it matters. Or does it?

She lay asleep in her bed. Restless in her thoughts not knowing what she should say or do.
He sits alone pondering the nights events. A beer  he be drinking and music playing. An urge to write beckons but it comes and goes.
The next 9 days will be his rebirth, or so he hopes.
Nothing is ever certian.

Steve June 2010

5 comments:

gs batty said...

rebirth??..hope that it happens...what ever it is..do you have enought beer in the cold box?

keithsramblings said...

Please don't tell me you are having a sex change!

Jaycee said...

I enjoyed this short piece.

dorinny said...

I really enjoyed this; so relatable - and I can just close my eyes and feel the night. Actually, your writing here reminds me of this fantastic poem I read once, although i have no idea why I'm reminded of it.. its about an alien:

Craig Raine
A Martian Sends A Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside -
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves -
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

KB said...

Ya didn't make that toastie did ya? xxxx

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