“out of the quiet dream of blackness”

Out of the blackness of dreams
There are wild murmurous thoughts
Whirling out of the deepest recesses
Shattering the stillness and silence of sleep

Here the orb of the moon may be brilliant gold
Or instead it may be blue as still waters
Here creatures may speak with the tongues of man
Or man may bleat and bark and chirp
As nonsensical as the creatures they mimic
Here doors may not open inward, or outward
But instead may fold into themselves
Or shatter into bits at the rap of knuckles

In the quiet blackness of dreams
All sense becomes nonsense
In the black quietness of dreams
All chaos becomes reality
In the black dream of quietness
We become our heart’s longing
In the quiet dream of blackness
We are still

Written in response to today’s challenge at With Real Toads, where we are given a list of words that seem disparate and asked to use at least five. I used eight.

one word: sniper

silent as whispers
perched upon a rooftop
unseen by all but the night
unerring in her determination
target acquired
she waits for the signal
steady hands
steady breaths
she hears the music
takes her shot
before the chaos below
spreads like a bloodstain


to the quiet
the silence speak
as nothing moves
the darkness

in a space before time
in a moment of anti-matter
lives the everything
alive and dying
dead and reborn

there exists all of creation
all of life blooms from one place
from one impossibly small moment

“Approaching Clarity”

a bitter wind blows impatiently
a voice I listen to
while I sit quietly
warming myself not with a fire
but with words
approaching clarity without never truly reaching it

This week’s Wordle-inspired poem. I’m trying to begin the year with writing, but have been a little uninspired, dealing with other issues in my life. I’ll get back in a rhythm soon, I hope. I miss writing.


insanity is in sanity bred
yet masked demons hover
lingering in hallways
of tormented mind’s creation
saffron pathways wind
and weave through glossy obsidian
edifices towering overhead
making small the powerful princes

insanity is in sanity bred
and princes weave overhead
making glossy pathways
of lingering saffron demons
hovering edifices masking
small minds’ creations

sanity is insanity bred
with tempered chaotic bliss
still ravenous demons revel wild
drawing life from passions
and stealing dreams while
nightmares enjoy troubled sleep
drifting aimless over waves
of night

I’m playing catchup after a short dry-ish spell, and saw the prompt over at With Real Toads about dementia. I was reminded of an old poem I wrote, but wanted to start something new. This is the result of that.


Sunrise comes so early
and finds her crouched in her corner
a bruise turning purple on her cheek.
The glow of morning brightens,
illuminating her pain, a split lip bleeding
and burst vessels leaching into her flesh.
She draws up her arms,
seeking protection from the dawn
fearing that piercing light.

All night she cowered
hearing the howl and crash
as the world around her crumpled.
Now voices call out, worried;
her vision blurs from pain
and she dares to reach out.
“Help..” she cries, trembling;
her hand sliced on the ragged edge
of a chisel, all that’s left.

Her studio is ravaged
broken bodies of marble and clay
in pieces strewn around her.
Visions of hope scattered,
severed pieces of her heart
strewn carelessly in the wreckage.
They come to rescue her not knowing
that in those shattered pieces
lies her life, her breath, her soul.

This week’s Sunday Whirling seemed to lend itself to a destructive verse, and thought this started out with a completely different story it changed in the writing, as so many do.