Nighttime on the cusp of madness

Nighttime ghosts cackle,
eyes shut, painful gut,
in a rut of another sleepless hour,
no power to shutoff thoughts, delay
solutions, resolutions, absolutions,
passing hours wind down the clock
in a whir of restless, feckless recriminations,
until dawn creeps through the curtains,
again, and again, and again.

Rise exhausted, unready, unsteady
to greet the day while a grackle cackles
as if to say, nevermore, which is the story,
understory of my whiplashed life, good luck
staying awake, as I fake another day
of work, eyes half shut, ears a buzzing,
vision fuzzing, until day is done,
homeward bound, where sound of clock
ticking, drives one to madness, sadness
until I lie down at eleven and repeat the pattern
again, and again, and again.

Delicate as a feather in the palm of my hand

She was my day, night, and
all that lies between. Her every breath:
sycamore and lavender. Each touch
a floating feather in the air, every smile
the full-phase moon’s perfection
rising on a clear autumn evening,
her laugh, chirp of bluebirds
swarming a just-filled feeder,
each swirl of her glowing hair,
flowing orb of the sun.

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic, who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. He also writes family history, with a book about his aunt published by the Texas A&M Press, and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

Image: Gb89.2, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons