rest
The glory of a rock as sure as this,
Compels my weary heart to make a home,
For thrashing waves are muzzled at the crash,
The fiercest winds fall limp upon the stone,
And so in pleased sight of Jealousy,
My heart has found true home,
And so in burning gaze of Loyalty,
My feet shall rest alone.
The night drags lately on unhinged,
The ringing just for me to dwell,
To listen beyond any noise and find it further still,
I'm found in murky dreams so frail,
They hardly hold a pull and so descend,
To settled sheet like drowsy sediment,
I am sleepy with the time,
I am gorged on frantic plays,
The hidden inner man has walked upon the face and is now to rest.
Lounging for the passage of a parted day,
The mind so wandering and vast,
Expands so lightly in the vacant hours,
Calmly ebbing in a stiller rhythm downstream.
The quiet of an open field,
Is no quiet quite at all,
But something more, something fuller,
It's the carried chatter of the birds,
The sliding of the wilding grass,
The transient wind which always seems to hang about such places -
I wonder why I ever filled it when I ought participate.
Quaint streams and quiet stumps lie down in peace,
Bask in the open heights of canopies,
They've leant against the sky to hide from all,
The busyness and noisy streets.
I'm conking out in style,
Where roads inevitably end,
And plastered with a sleepy smile,
For most my energy is gladly spent,
The happy work is done,
With lifted and anointed praise,
New stories of His grace begun!
And out of sight the happy work of saints as well.
A dashing toad in wily grass,
Sunbeaten striking up a deal,
The journey has been hardy far,
But now to dwell in underoots,
Feasting upon the blasted pests,
Which scourge the shallow greens and then,
To rest at every corner of the field.
The hidden way by dusty trees and gates,
Encumbered seas of wafting leaves it waits,
Gently, the patter of the rain falls dear,
Drawn heavy on the branches rings out clear,
The time becomes so delicate and faint,
A pale sky and a hazy afternoon,
Without much doing it comes calm and quaint.
Great days in thought, long days in thought,
Ever captive to a gripping thought,
In abstract structures and their striking turns,
In maddened grasps at language and its truth,
In fine and painful introspection of the self,
For philosophy and childlike whims,
Now ceased they turn to rest.
By grace they shall not steal the night.
The way of quiet clouds,
And homage of the muddy hills,
Humanity affirmed in slower days,
Though every tremor of the haste,
Lays close beside the resting heart,
It is a strength one does not have,
And so must humbly ask for peace.
The flight to quiet hills,
A haste that is no haste,
The place that ever fills,
The heart with sweeter taste,
When adventure's call is small,
When weary ears subordinated,
Must recoup and so recall
the shire.
Last to leave, the joys
Of a well paced afternoon,
Are perfected with a heft-
-y sun reclining on the blue.
The gauntlet through,
It's hidden blades and crouching hills,
Lie broken on this mounting view,
In the evening air a moment to sit still.
When all my waking seeks to sleep,
Curling at the edge of estranged self,
To fall within the arms of half oblivion,
Repose's false son: thief of evening light.
Surprised by weighted face,
A slumber comes as if to one:
Slumbering whilst awake. But still,
The flicker stays behind my eyes,
Though muffled through an endless fog,
I've seemed to draw an overdraft too dire.
Back to sleepy fields,
Yawning skies are greeting,
A quiet pause to yield,
A bright star though its fleeting,
Napping within pearly teeth,
It's lovely gaze to warm the hearts of men.
Collapsing into bed, the day drawn strangely long:
Extended on a churning belly,
Full of laughter. Only pardoned,
When it's vacant energy was spent,
And the march through darkness home remained,
Off, off to bed.
Mad strivings in a breath,
Scatter as the sunlight though a hazy afternoon,
Transmute to the impression of soft caress,
Abandon snuffed to give wide room,
To contemplation on unhurried eve,
The striving passed and fog long cleaved.
Nothing left to mask a sleepy face,
Lit up with few too hours of the day,
When talking walks along to silence:
A pretty bench among the bluebells,
Dressed in drooping branches and their newborn leaves,
It's final solace where it cease to simply watch.
Rubbing out my face,
Until its blank and marks
Of weariness don't stretch,
But leave it still.
I am rendered a watcher
Of the day gone by,
My head in work so wonderful and tiresome.
Stepping into other worlds,
Takes so many steps!
Up down the stairs, embroiled in boxes,
Filled and tripple checked,
In a puff such great a start!
Well try to find some rest.
When open eyes become as closed,
The day is drawing in,
When whispers seem too shrill for air,
The day is drawing in,
When light tucks over all the edges of the world,
And lamps stretch out in weary yawns,
The day is drawing in.
Find rest you weary soul,
The Lord has promised so,
When walking seems a heavy business,
Turn from yourself to His great throne,
Look squarely at the one ever beside,
On Him more weight than you could know,
Your heaviness on Him that you would find His rest.
Digging up a sleepy day,
Long buried far away,
Late morning breaking of a fast,
The sails lie scattered from the mast,
For here we shall not sink nor swim,
But rest the gentle waves until the lights grow dim.
Uncoiling now and winding down,
Taught string relaxed, spring opened out,
In gliding dips the pressure rounds,
Near to the bottom of the well,
Within the rhythm of a fast paced life,
I'll find alloted time to rest.
A moment to stand straight and still,
When all I do is lately run,
Quickly down far alleyways of thought,
Between conversations and the like,
Long streams of wisdom packaged tight,
Until I run down every store,
Of energy to give. Now to recharge,
To gather all my buzz and finish quick.
Maxing out the day,
It's brimming full of work,
A hearty glass to overflowing,
Reaching now the goal as set,
And now to bed.
Cotton shields for nibbling frost,
Scarves and hats to glove the head,
Wrap up warm and stay in bed,
Winter's now the daylight's lost.
Insurmounted trials lay behind,
The gracious solace of night,
A refuge of sleep and bastion of hope,
My strength sustained by grace will raise again at dawn.
I don't mind this pace of life,
Slowly punctuating empty space
With unhurried words in single aim
Of catching up and willing good,
A lovely home to build and sit therein.
Back to a bed,
A bed that shall not squeak,
Shan't ripple with a lean,
But will hold me firmly on the springs,
The grass is gone the fields behind,
Deep mornings left to dawn without
My shadow on the dew-slick plane.
The call to sleep compounds into a scream,
Sublimates into a resounding thud and ache,
Surrounding all my head and nestled deep behind my eyes,
Coiled up like muscled snakes within my legs,
Ok I head, I head.
Oh the wall I hit,
So often do I find you,
Closer than a comfort,
Now to greet a tired soul again,
Oh the wall I hit,
I wish you weren't so close at hand,
Or face or torso in between,
Alas, my tumble wound up your arms.
Crash out a little for the days are had,
Now the busyness has walked its course,
So pulling close my spread out thoughts,
I'll spend a little time with rougher plans.
An easing snap and scattered to the ground,
The finish line cast gently down,
Some raucous now I do not find,
At the buzzing end of speeding mind,
The Sun is fiercly in the sky,
With passion as I said goodbye,
With passion that I fail to clasp,
Instead a steady smile far milder that I seem to grasp.
I have just almost one exam left,
That is to say two final tests,
Then soon a plain and simple rest,
Before I charge at my behest,
To summer and the myriad of things to do.
A day that's trying to be slow,
In part it lags then finds a second wind,
Of change and pace and quickened rush,
Then like ice it fills a cup to brim,
Jumbled down and spinning into striking stillness,
Then tossed in floating swigs to find a refreshing pace.
I heard the banks do take their naps,
Though many moons are far between,
Unceasing pensions doled and all the rest,
Transaction cheques all flutter like the leaves,
Such ancient oak - a bastion never sleeps...
Except for when it does and all the bustle
With it takes a pause.
Though many stragglers find their feet
Still trotting on in learning or in errands
Never halting lest they fall behind... or...
Drop.
I hear a snigger sniffled on the midnight dust,
A fuel for hilarity to make your lungs as pufferfish,
Expanding in great trembled puffs,
A heave and wheeze in quiet dimly rooms,
To spike the walls with gladdened sound.
To curl up on a chair,
And spread out on the floor,
To call a blanket friend,
And freezing cold tiles warm,
To shut the eyes to outer lights,
And half open them to take a look,
At these many ways to find a rest - a sleep and deeply kip.
Goodnight to you,
And you and you and you,
A giggle for the way,
Such joyful heralds for the unwaking land,
Array themselves like haphazard scores,
Just barely harmonising to a law unto themselves.
The Lord our shepherd,
Stiller of our hurried bleating,
He set us free from barbs,
And bristles - free from rigid troughs,
To open meadows new and greener,
By crystal waters - our refreshing,
To enter His rest.
A poem returning to sleep,
A topic for all days...
That end in tumbles down to duvets,
And quiet contemplation in the night,
Eyes closed... or open in the dark,
All's same in this returning land,
Yet tired whispers ring like wind-chimes,
A gentle call to turn in quick,
That crashes into raucous harmony,
And then to silence urging you the same.
...
Coming now to journey's end,
I feel like I've done back-forth laps,
Sprinted till my hands and feet are golden paws,
I'm panting now just gone the line,
At last complete: now to ball up and snore.
March to bed,
I should have turned in,
Quite a time ago,
But alas I sit here late,
And poem for a silly consequence,
Of pushing sleep to other hours.
Lately to sleep,
A little dally on the way,
Meandering thinks cause my feet not to tread,
Alas it is lately - the feet learn to walk,
The thoughts turn to bed and dally no more.
Dull ache turns sharp,
When I stir now awake,
Long creak like bark,
A long rest now I seek,
Lord make my heart,
Turn so firmly to you,
Lord make my heart,
More dependant on you.
Like flowing currents in a warm stream,
This molten tiredness drifts beneath my skin,
And my mind wanders like a dream,
It pulls me into muddled half-way hot,
The ripples tall as I dip through the froth like cream,
It pools in steady pools like sunken thoughts,
I stand to the side and breathe the steam.
Head heavy,
Lead up from the bridge of my nose,
Bed creaking out for repose - so I
Tread on the surface of sleepfullness.
My eyes are tired,
Why do they seem to chastise me,
I barely even refuse sleep,
But simply tally at the thoughts of bed,
For waking is much better, see?
But my eyes... they really do chastise,
For I often seem to stretch the day,
When rather I should tuck it up,
The light behind my tired eyes.
I wish to enter time sleepful,
To warm up under covers kipped,
To do business at dream market stalls,
To nonsense talk from tired script,
And walk drempt streets forgetful.
Sovereign Lord,
When I slumber you wake,
Sustaining me when dreariness
Runs rampant in my creaking frame,
And I can rest in no other,
I will make you my refuge,
Glorious Father.
Trying not to crash and burn,
But touch down smooth,
Just as planes do,
Cease now! I told my tired cries,
But they remained,
Their call the same,
Sooner shall I wrap up lunch,
I tap out rhyme,
I rest the time,
The night delayed will soon run:
As darkness keeps,
Hushed minds asleep.
Blanket rain fall heavy in the dark,
Yet quiet whispers meet my weary ears,
For rain falls like the bore to deepest earth,
And I sit in castles up above their cries,
They water plants and drench the flies,
Yet I am warmed, my soul a mottled hearth,
By fire so glorious I know it's name.
Close come,
The day is drawn,
I'm rushed into a zipped up bed,
I hear incessant chatter lining the air,
Beneath, the rain patters on the cloth,
My head rested.
Fall asleep on carpet bristles,
Encircled by a talking family,
Heavy brain inside your skull,
Rests warm beneath a dream-woven duvet,
And cozy warmth spreads through and through,
On carpet bristles halfway soft.
Grassy beds,
Lie strewn in yesterday's dream,
But today spring overturns air,
And falls firmer beneath the slope of my back.
In the waking twilight,
The sky looms still,
Amused in dying passions of colour,
A school of stars swim frozen in the timeless seconds,
Stalled out of sight behind the withering elation of evening,
Perplexed, the outside world is grasped in overbearing memory,
Locked out by windows then eyelids before it is encased in my head,
I bend it slightly to convey a folded beauty,
And I spill it out onto this virtual page,
Light as paper,
Pen flowing as binary charge.
Snuggled up in parents' bed,
Packaged up in duvet-packing-peanuts,
That pack us in to talk a little,
In broken strings of sayings gone,
I must be going sometime now,
My bed awaits,
And poem snuggles end so soon.
Busied hands,
Fall tired on the screen,
Limp and sleep-primed,
But first a little more busy tapping,
And then a handy dream,
To rest the mind that rhymed,
And exceed a long time napping.
Home alone,
And the darkness is a little less full,
Empty of the sleepy bodies bound to mine by blood,
And it rumbles silently into the night,
Alas I remain with my friend and my brother,
He sleeps whilst I busy the winking hours,
They shall end soon.
Slowing down,
And my body sways on the midnight river,
Slow dancing on the rolling waves,
All is calm in dreamer's town,
On the open waterway my raft wobbles with a releasing shiver,
I will find my vessel for another day docked and saved,
And rest in truest hugs divine,
That wrap me up in gentlest providence.
Fuzzing hums,
Resound with pulsing pipes,
And a quiet ambience swaddles the house in cozy nighttime tunes,
Hear the hum and hear it no more,
For sleep should grasp your tired thoughts.
Shaded walls,
Do flow on upwards,
Sheering off to a flat face above,
A surface that is,
Nothing strange to see,
But nighttime waltzing to the tune of retreating day,
When noonday folk do rest from toil,
And gaze upon their frames beyond tight eyes,
And thoughts fall into weary dust of dreaming-scapes.
'Poems came'
Whispered the weary eyes,
Blinking silent syllables at the screen,
Thinking of the many lights that sought to meet it in its depths,
Yet it returned to the screen once again,
For it shines the warmest light on deepest darkest pupils,
A chorus of static fizzing meets the eyes,
Friendship for the tired days,
They sit still again,
For silence is the talk of sleepy friends.
Sleepy eyes...
Follow the brilliant white keys along the screen,
Hiding depths of groggy wakefulness,
'Maybe poems will come'
The eyes whisper to the screen,
An inaudible sizzle meets the gaze,
They sit in ponderance,
For the night is younger than it could be,
And tomorrow shall remain a little ahead of them,
As it always has...
Dropping down like a sack of rice,
Falling scattered in my pot-like bed,
Sizzling under covers until I'm fluffy tomorrow,
I will face the day and fall like grains again,
Until next time...
I'll be cooking with sleep and sheep for now.
Winding down,
I hear the water flowing through the pipes,
A little sizzle and drizzle,
A warm rush for the night,
To stay warm in my covers - so cozy,
I'm a little drowsy now,
Lights off and breathe slowly.
A little breath in my lungs,
Gratefulness in my soul,
Off to bed - I climb the rungs,
And the night slips in.
A simple dream sits in the periphery.
Quietly now,
Rush off to the silent land,
And hush your merry twittering,
For the stillness of today will end by the morning,
And the dawn will kiss your eyelids awake.
So go quietly now,
Rush off to the formless place,
Where you shall see and unsee,
Laugh and unlaugh,
And leave your past in the author's hands,
Stepping onto the other pages.
Go quietly now, my child,
Drift off to the consoling warmth,
Its time to lay your failures to rest,
They don't follow you into the author's arms,
He has new lyrics for your heart,
And new dawns for your smile,
So leave them in the gentle waves.
He awaits you in the quiet place,
And holds out His arms with deft and grace,
To rap you up and make you smile,
To hold you close,
And still your restless heart.
A sleepyleb lounges,
Enchanted by the prospect of no more commutes,
And much less muchness.
The daily clamour is a racket three times more than not,
Its a great dance and parade,
Great fun and great games.
Nevertheless, after work comes great rest,
And after rest great fun.
It's the natural rhythm of things.
A fragrant summer,
Breeze drifts lightly,
To another's slight delight,
And to my contentment.
A cozy blanket,
Falls from the cosmic canopy,
And raps me up in the deep embrace of stillness.
It's warm and yellow.
Another rests beside also.