older insomnia poems


I know a little girl that collects rain in bottles.
Says she wants to keep something from Heaven because,
“That’s where God lives.”
I say that’s beautiful…

In spring, she collects dandelions.
She picks the feathery ones
Then she closes her eyes, makes a wish, and blows the feathers into the wind.
Says, “My Daddy told me if I wish real hard, all of my wishes will come true.”

When I was a little boy The Old Man tried to teach me about the different cloud formations.
Said, “If you know what you’re looking at, you can tell what kind of weather we’re gonna to have.”
Over the years, I’ve forgotten the difference between cumulus and stratus.
Weatherman says it’s going to rain tomorrow.
Think I’ll put a bottle outside to catch something from heaven

………..that’s where The Old Man lives



I see this as my moment, and why shouldn’t I?

Just because you say, “Now isn’t the time,” doesn’t mean I should listen.
It’s not like you have my best interest at heart, and let’s face it,
if I move forward that will only mean you never tried.

I saw a group of old friends not too long ago
Age has stepped in. I could see that.
Doesn’t mean everyone has grown up though.

I passed as if I didn’t recognize anyone
No one recognized me either, so maybe we’re all playing the same game

……..in our 40’s


The poles have switched
and our half of the hemisphere has tilted away from the sun and grown colder.
It doesn’t bother me; the colors of fall or the shedding of leaves
I love this time of year.
I feel as if heat gives way, so we can rest,
and the constant pressure of being, “In,” subsides to say,
a knitted sweater, or a cup of hot chocolate, and a smile.

The beaches are vacant
The sands are empty and all that remains are the remnants of summer.

I prefer it this way: vacant
I can hear the ocean and surf as it moves under God.
Gulls follow the commercial boats to sea, and as for the sunsets…
there is nothing else like it




Your king is weary of his conquests
You, the queen, are weary of travel and the mind needs something synthetic to feel pure
……..I know

Your search to feel untainted is overwhelming
So you give in and swallow the toxin to be free
……..I get that

You trade your empire for secrets.
You welcome the machines that ease the spine
and sink into the gentle pasture of your mind

……..I’ve been there

I used to do that on B17th Street

Thoughts detach from body like rainfall changes the landscape.
An army of pills rescue the infants crying in your mind,
which washes the sunlight,
and softens the blow of your missing rainbows

…….I know

I felt that way too



My first step is short of the next, which bothers me, because I am unsure of where to turn
……..If you ask me what have I done
Maybe I’ll smile or laugh to drown your question.

I mean, here it is 4:00am
I’m dreaming of pillows I can’t sleep on
and wishing my head would slow down long enough for me to close my eyes.
I can’t sleep

I guess I’ll write and add this to something I call,

“Bedtime Stories for the Insomniac”



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