I had thoughts at three am - they seemed as clear as anything
Awake
but not awake
In that moment - I had such clarity
Hovering between sleep and waking
able to sit in a place of lucidity
Lit by the glowing vibration that everything makes sense
luminous
bright
Now, my brain is turning in on itself, trying to remember what
Stuck
Playing the same section over and over
and over
The confusion heavy in my mind
Furrowed brow
Thick layers of wadding between my thoughts and my thinking
Disengage and let it be
No need to hold on so tightly
soften your grip
Sweep away the debris and the dusty old cogitations lying around
Round and round in circles we go
Dark night
Pure
black
sky
Rest awhile
eyelids heavy
watching my dreams…
Round and round in circles we go
Dark night
Pure
black
sky
Map the way
Spread the familiar paper flat on the kitchen table
deep creases from years of folding and unfolding
Tracing my finger softly over the markings
Dark night
Pure
black
sky
One foot in front of the other
The path creating itself
Moving where we are guided
Staring into the distance - longing for clarity
For the midnight clouds to clear
To gaze at the moon
To talk to the stars
Stuck ~ sometime in 2024
Like a lot of women at this age the ability of getting a good nights sleep waxes and wanes. This was written during a period of insomnia and is one of a handful of poems that I first wrote.
So far, every time I share writing in this way, it feels like I am peeling back a tiny piece of skin and showing you what’s underneath. Maybe that’s poetry? Perhaps, it is because working this way is new, and as with all first time endeavours, there is of course an accompaniment of self doubt. Presenting work in its infancy definitely amplifies those vulnerable feelings that come hand in hand with sharing any creative work.
Ironically, I got ‘stuck’ on whether to share this poem or not. I hope I can hold onto the freedom that is awarded to the beginner who is blissfuly ignorant to what they don’t know. I fear the more I discover about poetry, the more my self critic will intervene and slow the flow of work, as I have the habit of being a bit of a perfectionist. Sharing older poems then becomes a challenge as I look at them with new ‘informed’ eyes. However, I’m trying to leave the pieces alone and not mess about with them too much as they are a little snippet of life at a specific time - a word shaped time capsule - a reminder of where I have come from.
I loved this - especially "the path creating itself"