Thursday, January 29, 2015

It Is Time To Get Tired (A Poem)

On this day in history....
~William McKinley was born in 1846. He would become the first U.S. president to ride in an automobile.
~Stanley Kubrick's Cold War farce Dr. Strangelove (How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb) was released.
~The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe, was published.
~Five years ago today I wrote a blog entry about making lists.

Many years ago Susie and I bought a wonderful addition to our home, a book titled The Book of the Sandman and the Alphabet of Sleep. We got it because we loved the artwork of its illustrator, Rien Poortvliet. If you have young ones or grandchildren, this is a really special book.

Sleep is one of those things that is precious to us. And on occasion it eludes us. We all have our techniques to acquire the rest we covet. But when counting sheep and all else fails... then what? Here is a poem that sprang to mind one recent evening.

It’s Time To Get Tired 

Why is it that our bodies wake at the same precise moment
our alarms have instructed and trained us to.
Even when we travel two time zones West, the inner alarm
kicks us awake in our regular time-zoned moment, unfooled by geography.

Yet when night falls, too often we’re wired.
Our batteries refuse to discharge their strength.
Why does my body not understand? It’s time to get tired.

O Sleep, where art thou my lost friend?

I walk like a ghost through the rooms of my house
hoping to catch a glimpse of you
hiding behind a curtain, or a chair.
But you’re not there, or here, or there. Or there.

I leave the house in the deep of night, longing for your embrace.
Come back, Friend. Why did I ever take you for granted?

The hours glide by and I wait for you like a Lover.
I long to lose myself in you.

Our relationship is impossible. When I hear you approach,
when I sense you drawing near my heart races,
but when I make the slightest move in your direction you flee.
Why do you continually break my heart?

I track you like a bloodhound, with longing, driven by your scent.
Why must you continuously remain on the run?
Come home to me. I’m pleading now. Quit breaking my heart.

There are no more sheep to count. They’ve been scattered by wolves.
There are no more logs to saw. My imagination has been deforested.

e.n. 2015

# # # #

When all else fails, try a book.  :-)

No comments: