Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Sleepless Nights Are for Writing

I'm up and I don't feel a bit drowsy, which makes me feel like I should capitalize on this time and write.

Unfortunately nothing springs to mind.

I know "good" writers practice their craft regularly, keeping their muscles in shape with daily writing exercises, prompts and other forms of practice.

I tend to wait until a good idea smacks me upside the head and then try to get it onto the screen before all the precious words go dribbling out my ear.

So,  since I'm up, a little piece of history...


My bright-eyed angel
                looks to me,
                to unwrap the wonders
                of the day.

To coerce smiles and giggles,
                to soothe teary cries,
                to hold on tight
                as if to say
                all is right with the world.

So much riding on
                my every action.
                A life
                with dreams and hopes and fears.

And me,
                with the power to
                love him into being
                his fabulous, perfect self.



My little brother
                back curved protectively forward,
                arms awkwardly cradling
                my most valued treasure.

Knees bent, he bounces
                the rhythm of the lullaby.
                looking expectantly
                into those precious eyes
                for a sign of slumber.

An uncle in the making
                rough edges soften,
                eager to soothe
                to win the affections
                of our little angel.



To see the love of your life
cradle his son
as if he might break
takes your breath away.

Like peeking through the cracked door
to watch the child 
recline peacefully
while rough hands
carefully turn pages
in a nightly ritual,

The child’s eyes follow those fingers,
as the deep voice 
whispers and sings
the delicate cadence.

Then, he carefully deposits
the drowsy child
with silken touches 
and whispers of
love and sweet slumber.


5 O’Clock 

They sat, content,
unwrapping burgers and fries.
Her warm smile tells the story
of years spent
building a life,
painting rooms,
nurturing dreams.
Of a lifetime of dinners.

His solemn gaze
speaks of
tender love
from the first moment
until now
and on into forever.

He knew then 
that they would sit 
under the florescent haze,
commencing a nightly ritual.

Eons since that first moment
and yet in the blink of an eye
here they are
at 5 o’clock dinner.