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.

On New Year's Day

Now, really it is just another day.

The sun came up, we woke, we ate, we washed,

We greeted those we saw - that is to say

'Tis arbitrary, New Year's Day, b'gosh.

It has to happen sometime, lest our brains

Be overwhelmed with keeping track of time,

That piles up endlessly, that ever gains

Until we all are lost amidst the climb

Towards a summit none of us will see.

So, yearly we declare "let's start again,

Let's clean the slate, let's say today will be

An origin, and not just more, again,

Of what we've had a-going for so long."

But not forget the old stuff, per the song.

In Which My Thoughts Go Round And Round Like Deep Blue's Wheels

I'm restless. I've had quite an afternoon,

With much occurring and yet naught at all.

The tension's built up too much and so soon

I've got to let it out. My bike doth call.

What did I ever do before Deep Blue

When situations rose that drove me nuts?

I no longer remember, have no clue

Just how I used to pull myself from ruts.

My bicycle and sonnets rule my days.

'Tis discipline, I think, which is all good

But days like this I feel somewhat enslaved

To both, but realize, try as I would

That habits, good, or bad, govern me still

I only think I've something like free will.

In Which Wintry Weather Makes Me Reflect

I am no Bonaparte; my armies fight

Their best in winter's snows and wind and cold.

Alone I stand out in the freezing night

And look up at the stars and feel how old

This world is and is not. Dichotomies

Like these are occupying me of late.

I'm of the cast of mind such that it please,

Not anger me to sit and contemplate,

While crystals made of ice pummel and sting

My face, how things and people never are

As simple as they seem. Each little thing

They do results from infinite, bizarre

Tempestuous processes, chaos-tossed

Until at last they're frozen fast as frost.

In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause

A power failure, but in far from black

Do I sit here; the glare from off the snow

Lights up my house so I squint. I could track

The world outside: A hand-cranked radio

Sits here. Instead I peer deep down inside

And let myself feel all that's going on,

What is and what could be. I cannot hide

In shadows on a day like this. I'll don

Soon coat and boots, my new sunglasses, and

Ride on Deep Blue to where my work awaits,

But now my pen and Field Notes guide my hand

To lead me to some stillness. 'Tis the Fates,

Not I, who should be brooding. Let it be.

There's nothing I can do but wait and see.