Hour Of The Wolf

Lat night, as I lay awake, I was thinking of the following piece and the Hour of the Wolf, so named for those restless hours before dawn when one wakes up and cannot get back to sleep (And also the title of a 4th season Babylon 5 episode for the citation minded :) . In my case, I had not been to sleep, which is about the norm these days. That time of night, though, is strange and wondrous, and as one becomes more sleep deprived, little things change. Sounds, thoughts, even what you see shifts a little. Strange, but I've seen it enough to know that perception shifts late at night, or early in the 'morn, however you wish to view it.

Not surprisingly, I've written a lot in the middle of the night, those times when memory wants to consume you and all you can do is regret, wonder, and worry. The following is an older stream of consciousness piece that to me, sums up those memories and the danger of what might have been and what was.

'Hour of the Wolf'

Lying awake....

Gentle sighs between nervous tensions of
Passionate tenderness eschewing
A disquiet memory of longing for that sweet
Ecstasy belying its own beauty hoping for
That enduring but fleeting instant
Which cannot be worn away.

Whispers of words lost in moments of heightened
Revelation which are forgotten and
Remembered between the seconds of
Overwhelming intensity lasting as
Needed or wanting for more.

Simple passion yet complex rhythms on
Nights time slipped into wonder culminating in a
Singular movement filled with driven
Amazement as surreal and real collide enveloping
Sensuality bringing it to that place
Within the wellspring of souls.

The image fades...
Haunting the hours before dawn.

C.

Fitful and Waking Dreams

I might have mentioned certain insights into my dreams at one point or another and the simple fact I dream a lot, not daydream, though I will zone out now and then, even while doing something like blogging. I mentally multi-task a lot, and my dreams reflect that type of activity, meaning my mind has trouble slowing down, or shutting down so I can get some real sleep. The following are a couple of 'dream' related poems that touch on the good, and sometimes ill, of dreams (I also have two more related poems, but not quite, more dealing with empty hope, and I will address them another time).

Strangely, the first poem was not really a result of a dream but a hangover turned concussion. I had way too much to drink many moons ago and wound up passing out briefly on a friend's driveway. When I staggered inside and finally passed out, it turned out to be more from the bump on the head... turns out the concussion cured the hangover. Still, I woke up refreshed enough to write the first poem, which again illustrates to me the weirdness of inspiration. The second poem had something to do with me whining about love and the forms love takes in dreams... pretty traditional inspiration by comparison.

'Fitful Dreaming'

'Some see the world for what it is, and ask why. I see things that never were and ask why not.' - Robert F. Kennedy paraphrasing George Bernard Shaw

It is the fate of the fitful dreamer to forever question
For good or ill, they ponder;
Restless in slumber, tireless in vision,
But lost to tomorrow,
Sometimes forgetting today.

The fitful dreamer knows the lessons of the past;
The joys and pains they recall.
Hoping for the best, expecting the worst,
Trapped in the cycle
That is the burden of today.

What, then, is the place of the fitful dreamer?
Wanting for long ago and far away
Lingering in the ebb and flow of time,
Yearning for futures gone,
Confined to the tragedy of today.

It is the fate of the fitful dreamer to forever question,
For they can see tomorrow
When many cannot even fathom today.

'Waking Dreams'

'Tis too late for me to know,
What an end lies within my sight.
Your image continues its haunting;
You are my burden within the night.

'Tis too late for me to hope,
Movements and forms beyond tomorrow.
Lost in a cacophony of thoughts,
Becoming then an instrument of my sorrow.

'Tis too late for me to love,
For you are but a dream.
No amount of longing makes you real,
Even if real is what you seem.

C.