the poetry knook :: the poetry of stephen m. james :: indianapolis, indiana » sleep

Forbidden cricket song

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

hills of grassy fields without mowing,
resonate a gushing spring worth welling,
your hairy shanks tonight slide
against me, hidden by cuff of jean,
vegetation’s swelling I know
mother nature’s maestro
no feline stomach could play
poetry scraping me to sleep.

Getting her off, his chest

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

He’s spent the hour deciding how to get her head to her pillow and off his chest where lay her silhouetted cheekbones, high and smooth, against his sternum rising slow. His eyes–breaths before closing–stay ajar to see his reason–her–to open: sweat with hair, her humid breath undulates love. He’s lost this hour, the first of twenty-four, in thought, recounts this day, ceremony, the vows, her muddy eyes now veiled in sleep, her arms, his, interwoved in figure eight. He grasps for pen and pad on nightstand out of reach to write his joy, his words: hopeful to not to wake his bride from needed rest.

We yelled for the sake of yelling our favorite songs

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

warm and cold is the life.
The blue LCD lingers even with friends,
my friends-my (saving me from the) screen
savers, freezing, cold, heartless–
the silence of mp3s and IMs,
the rock concert, the heavy metal hanging from the lashes, lulling to sleep–
s l o w i n g
the beams of light from reaching my eyes:
the red cheeks of winter night out glow fire and wash over the goodbye with a
“goodbye” faded with l o n g i n g,
for the radio interferes with the conversations
and with the passenger-seated soul
beside me
gliding down the interstate, the back-roads, the melting, the remembering

Can you force me to epiphany?

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

In your Lucid Dream, she was your savior:
a nude supermodel standing in the doorway,
(is it distracting to the message?)
for those defined by emotional intimacy–searching
under a rock somewhere, someday
where the 30 year dew will have ‘mil-ded;”
‘after you’ve driven off a bridge at 80 mph”¦somehow you don’t let happiness in without a full body search,”
insecurity ignites with alcohol, you know,
masks on the front, masks on the back
‘I don’t know if I can be your friend with that mask on?”
I’m not the only one hiding,
fearing one could be taken away,
like the half-empty consequence of predestination,

waiting for another ‘Document1″ to load,
a finger to curl around and a shoulder to smell,
a face to trust after my reconstructive surgery and
if my intellect hung by atomic magnetism to my sanity?
will innocence be charming then?
for sweet sauce would be bland without the sour.
I’m a pleasure delayer–maybe? Is God?
Well, we’re still here. Aren’t we?
oh, to know this image more than it knows itself
and to ask what is happiness?
The little things: there’s nothing bigger
(everything is little to Him).
Immortality as entertainment””this can’t be the future,
but it is the present church: ‘Look at this. I’m frozen, and you’re dead.”
–’It’s a problem,” Penelope says with a smirk
and a kiss, and a vow to love me forever.

‘You just never seem to be there for your friends until they give up on you.”
–well, that’s because they don’t need me when they are high.
‘Don’t you know that when you sleep with someone your body makes a promise or whether you do or not.”
–My life is chewy twizzlers. Add some food coloring, and call me in the morning, honey.
No! Challenge me, change my view:
teach me!
if you can,
for I don’t know what to enroll in or
whether it would be quicker to just read
or watch a movie?

can you analyze why I sniff
your shoulder, and what I want in
life, entice me to entertain
you and not to convulse in
guilt,
tally my thoughts and find a sum?

My Mount Olympia

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

When the lint on the invoice envelope’s edge, looks like a man running for you,
I want a mother, I’ve always said, to hold me and melt me into her breast
for the heat rocks me to sleep
as if I could do anything but rest
bordered in your arms
you bat away the bees
around you that swarm
to taste this ambrosia
that never leaves me starved

Washing the sleep oil off

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

It’s 7:46am, I’m washing the sleep oil off–
sick of tiredness
getting me–I love them, but only as “them–”
everyone else,
Could you look me in the eye?
And tell me that you are happy now?

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at grass
not open fields with galloping equine
but backyard tuff
you mow yourself–
when you can
because you are so busy
with the work/commute/work/dinner/work/sleep/work.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at a leaf
not the pile for my enjoyment
but the loner
that rolls across the spring yard
because you are busy
with fun/commute/fun/dinner/fun/sleep/fun.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at wood grain
not paneling on cheap cabinets
but the home
the warbler calls from
when he can
because we are so noisy
–
Have you pointed to the light
and held a hand tight enough to melt
into one thought–diving into
someone who knows
when I lie to and with me
in the umbra of an oak tree.