Troubled Sleep

When dreams carry me far,

Connecting life's reality to distant star,

It is then I find answers to my fears,

Or discover what I hold dear,

Lost memories stroll two and three,

Reminding me how it used to be,

Am I awake or in a dream,

Caught forever in a wayward scheme,

My needs, my wants, my heart's desires,

Struggling between ice and raging fires,

My fantasies are not long to keep,

As I drift back into troubled sleep,

My muse tugs impatiently at my mind,

"Wake up! There are worlds to find,

Time is fleeting as you sleep,

And you have promises to keep,

Stories that have risen from the deep,

Must be captured for the world to keep,

You don't really need to sleep,"

Weary from travels within my head,

Miserably I stumble from my bed,

No reason to argue with my muse,

That's a battle I always lose,

For gentle thoughts become a crowd,

Their cries to be heard grow very loud,

And where is this wisp called sleep,

It was released early, not mine to keep.

The Poem Not Written

My poetry is a time of curiosity, of smiles,

And childlike satisfaction of using guile,

It is a gift, a talent, imagined or real,

That lets my heart express how I feel,

It shapes itself from thought to pen,

And stirs my soul to write again,

My muse is often witty when she has her say,

Mediocre poems are due to her really bad day,

They may be laden with imagery and flow,

Or fall flat on their faces with little to show,

But the worst poem of all is the poem not written,

It waits swollen with promise, as if snake bitten,

Stares forlornly as other poems strut their stuff,

And never ventures out, it’s not good enough,

Nor does it climb into one of my dreams,

Pestering to be written as a beautiful theme,

The poem not written gets left behind,

Forever out of sight, and finally out of mind.