SESTINA SATURDAY: Insomnia And Her Aftermath

I wake up in the night; the urge to write
Implacable, that or the urge to draw.
And at their bidding I answer the call,
As ever I'm an abject slave to hope
That I'll produce something to match the thought
I had on waking, and not what I fear.

Futility and poor work, these I fear,
Twin demons sit my shoulders as I write
And torment me, disturb my ev'ry thought.
To banish them I grab a pencil, draw
An insect or a friend, all in the hope
That I will placate that creative call.

Sometimes, though, what I want to do is call
Out to someone I'm thinking of. I fear
Disturbing him or her; this trumps my hope
That I am in those thoughts as well. I write
Long letters that I never send to draw
Myself from my paralysis of thought.

My life is nothing like what I once thought
It would be at this age. I would not call
Me old, though it is true that I do draw
Near to the middle-age. I do not fear
What it will bring, that stage. I bow and write
Like always, still a-chase after my hope.

That I can do this still renews my hope
That something yet may come of all I've thought,
That one day something that I yet may write
Will place at last that longed-for, unknown call
For peace and calm to quiet all my fear
Before it all must end and I withdraw.

So by the lamplight, late, I sit and draw,
My totem creatures, in each line a hope
And in each empty space a kind of fear --
Of what? I dare not entertain the thought
Through darkest watches. One day it will call
And I will answer, though. Till then, I write.

When sleep eludes me, then I write and draw.
My heart still makes the call to what I hope
Will justify my thought or prove my fear.

In Which I Gloat Over A Great Chance To Watch The International Space Station

My Twitter feed comes with a special "twisst":
An application that alerts me when,
Like Horkheimer I look up, I'd have missed
A special sight if facing wrong. I've been
A gawker at the skies since childhood, and,
Like many thought I'd be an astronaut.
That didn't happen, but in quite a grand
Tradition I watch ships launch and you ought
Not be surprised I sometimes crane my neck
And watch for our space station overhead.
Tonight at 6:07 a bright speck
Will come from west-northwest. I'm oft in bed
When such a chance occurs, or there are clouds.
Tonight though, I shall see it; nothing shrouds!

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which I Reflect On My First Way After Hours Bike Commute

At 1 A.M. the city of Cheyenne
Belongs to me and Deep Blue, it appears.
My only obstacle - the odd trash can
Placed in the bike lane - merely draws my sneers.
I'm warmly dressed and ride into the fog,
And crow along with Kurt Elling's best song
With fear of neither emo kid nor dog
To trip me up, whatever could go wrong?
I pedal happily, look 'round and sing
Right at the top of tired lungs with Kurt.
But mind the ice, Kate, on the streets - one thing
I can't dismiss. A wipe-out would sure hurt!
And just between us two, O reader mine,
Jaybiking 'gainst the traffic lights is fine!

BONUS SONNET: A Friend I Wish I Did Not Have

I have a friend who only comes at night

(And not that kind of "comes," O dirty minds),

Informally; I never need invite

Her in. She's clever, and she always finds

A way around my booby traps and snares,

And takes her tiresome seat beside my bed,

Says "You're awake! Oh good!" and calmly stares

And waits for me to pay her mind instead

Of sleeping tight. She thinks it's much more fun

Regaling me with past misdeeds and gaffes,

Or taunting me with things I've not yet done

And prob'ly never will, and cruelly laughs.

"INSOMNIA, bitch goddess, get thee gone!"

I cry. Then morning NPR comes on.