Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The sharp taps of the clock await my silence to break free from my wistful whisper—to never hear it while my eyes are shot open, to find my nerve and trigger it—as the sadness carefully passes through my system. Too far gone to care, leaving me paralyzed in a cold, soft, sinking bed.

It was a momentary piece where my head had the sensation of being stroked like piano keys, where a soft yet disturbing melody filled the place, and I closed my eyes, lulling me to my deep slumber.

There’s that unknown peace where a deep slumber could lead to an eternal doom—where the past, the present, and the future collide together, where everything exists together, whether in a beautiful song that’s pieced together, or loneliness held in thousands of agonies.

One thing is for sure, I have the guts to love the doomsday, and all things are possible because it is the end of May.
I haven’t been writing for months already. Maybe because I use my time to stuff my soul with the tasks in my work. Lately, I have not been feeling well. I know in my soul, there is an itch of hopelessness and anxiety. But I’m holding myself together.

For myself today, and for myself in the future.

I was able to come back into writing because of this song: Staying - Lizzy McAlpine
~for old poets every where

I'm a short burst deep sleeper,
the woman is a restless wild eyed story telling schemer~dreamer, who drives at night
in fourth gear,
shaking the bed,
with dreams gone wild,
crazed & crazy intermixed stories unhinged but always
real life related

most by morn forgotten,
'cept for the truly bizarre,
where scraps of unbridled unbelievable
remain for head shaking disbelieving

i sleep in clumps,
four hour sessions and thus oft
bear witness to her
charcoal activated dream states,
where physical reality intersperses,
i n t e r m i n g l e s
with her dream life,

when she wrestles with an
unreal
dreamed restlessness;
my fingers find an exposed
body part, arm, shoulder, tummy,
and steady massage a message
from my fingertips to her
brain,

mantra: it's ok, it's alright,
and return her to the safety
of a deeper sleeper,
so the brain can do its work,
washing away the unrefined,
needy for distilling,
overnight cleansing,
of unwanted memories
which generally works

in the thorny morny morning
she gets a questionnaire
and 9/10,
has no recollection collection,
my magic prophylactic
fingertips, each tipped with
a inked smiley face,
look up at me,
know-it-alls,
smirking contentedly,
"our work is done here!"

Nay, May 25
2025
writ by starlight
dream states are not geopolitical;
wherever we go, they follow
https://www.google.com/gasearch?q=How%20overnight%20brain%20washes%20away%20memories&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5
I remember clearly the day we met
Which makes it seem like only yesterday
Memories cherished, memories kept
And a promise to forever, never give them away

A timeless legacy of family and faith
Between you and me to help carry it on
Adding doses of love along the way
Knowing full well we'll never go it alone

I promise you with this lasting truth
Whatever you and I are going through
I'll hold on tight and never let loose
Being more than ready to grow old with you

It's not hard to find we're still young in mind
With brittle bones that hold tender souls
We moan and we groan like we've been in a fight
And still not yet ready to give up the ghost

It hasn't been perfect, but we have been blessed
In all of the crazy that life's thrown at us
Still standing strong, last time we checked
Attributed to the power of love

I promise you with this lasting truth
Whatever you and I are going through
I'll hold on tight and never let loose
Being more than ready to grow old with you
humility

comes from odd places,
and so oft unexpected,
a comment leads me to
fine lace, of which I see know
nought and naught, and to Normandy and Northern England,
rafting into history

and what the difference is tween
naught and nought (not much)

and my ignorance is stupendous,
really, I know so little about so much, and it staggers me into
wailful willful

and honest

humility
June 2025
Gilgamesh's journey and Utnapishtim’s tale of the Great Flood

He roamed where men did not belong,
with feet made sore by right and wrong.
The lion’s pelt across his back,
his eyes were storms, his soul a crack.

Through valleys scorched and mountains numb,
through nights that made the dreamers dumb,
he came at last to darkest shore—
the gates where no man asks for more.

Two scorpion guards, with blazing breath,
who kept the path that walked with death,
let him pass—his face so worn,
they knew this king was twice reborn.

He traveled then beneath the earth,
where sun forgets and silence births.
Through twelve leagues of eternal black,
his thoughts his only turning back.

At last he came to shores of sand,
where Siduri poured with trembling hand
a cup of wine, and spoke with grace:
“Why chase the wind no man can face?”

But still he pressed beyond her plea,
and crossed the Waters of the Sea,
until he reached a quiet shore
where Utnapishtim kept the lore.

“O deathless man, I seek your gift—
to stop the tide, to make the shift.
How did you gain eternal breath,
and break the iron spine of death?”

The old one spoke: “A flood once came,
from gods enraged by human shame.
They planned to drown the world in night—
to sweep away both wrong and right.

But Ea, god of whispering streams,
warned me gently in my dreams.
He told me: build a box of wood,
to carry seed and kin and good.

And when the rains consumed the sky,
and all beneath was left to die,
my ark alone withstood the wave—
the storm became our floating grave.

For six days long, the sea held sway,
then silence fell on the seventh day.
I loosed a dove, then raven bold,
until dry land the bird foretold.

The gods repented, soothed their rage—
but time had turned a darker page.
They set me here, far from men’s breath,
a gift of life—a curse of death.”
The second to last chapter of the Akkadian 4000 year old poem, originally etched in stone in what is now called Iraq.
Translated from the original by Andrew George
and, on my request, scripted in original verse by Madam Chat GPT.

[email protected]
I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/05/25:
Sea change =  a big and sudden change or transformation.
Next page