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2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

Categories: Poetry Challenge 2014, Poetry Prompts, Robert Lee Brewer's Poetic Asides Blog, What's New.

Later this morning/early afternoon, Tammy and me will be returning home from the Austin International Poetry Festival (driving against the sun and through the night). If you’re interested in reading, here are a few links to my published poems (after they’ve made it past first draft):

  • 4 poems in Hobble Creek Review.
  • 3 poems (and 10 questions) in Poets|Artists.
  • The People” in The Pedestal Magazine.

For today’s prompt, write a night poem. Vampires and werewolves? Cool. Clubbing and saloons? You got it. Lovers together alone? Right. Ex-lovers alone on their own? Sure thing. You figure out your night poem–and, yes, (k)night poems are fine too.

*****

2014_poets_marketGet published!

The 2014 Poet’s Market is the “go-to” resource for poets who want to get their bearings on the choppy waters of poetry publication. The book is divided into sections on the craft of poetry, business of poetry, and promotion of poetry. Plus, it includes original poems and poet interviews.

Beyond all that, there’s the bread and butter of the book: Hundreds of listings for book and chapbook publishers, magazines and journals, contests and awards, and so much more.

Click to continue.

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Here’s my attempt at a Night Poem:

“golden”

the world begins to cool off
wind slowing to a whisper
and then silence the children

soon follow and we gather
the dishes go through backpacks
to make sure it all gets signed

cleaned and prepped to start again
we brush teeth and get in bed
with our books able to hear

a cat paw stepping outside
because we are silent too
until you put down your book

turn off your lamp and cuddle
into me and i’m ready
to follow your steady lead

*****

Today’s guest judge is…

Andrew Hudgins

Andrew Hudgins

Andrew Hudgins

Andrew is the author of seven books of poems, including Saints and Strangers, The Glass Hammer, and Ecstatic in the Poison. A finalist for the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize, he is a recipient of Guggenheim and National Endowment for the Arts fellowships as well as the Harper Lee Award. He currently teaches in the Department of English at Ohio State University.

His most recent books are A Clown at Midnight (poems) and The Joker: A Memoir.

Click here to learn more.

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PYHO_Small_200x200Poem Your Heart Out

Poems, Prompts & Room to Add Your Own for the 2014 April PAD Challenge!

Words Dance Publishing is offering 20% off pre-orders for the Poem Your Heart Out anthology until May 1st! If you’d like to learn a bit more about our vision for the book, when it will be published, among other details.

Click to continue.

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems. He has no preference for writing at night or during the day, as long as he’s breathing and has a pen at the ready. Learn more about him here: http://www.robertleebrewer.com/.

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Night owls can flock to these poetic posts:

 

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About Robert Lee Brewer

Senior Content Editor, Writer's Digest Community.

835 Responses to 2014 April PAD Challenge: Day 6

  1. IndiFox says:

    At Night

    I make plans
    With my feelings
    I give them hours
    Not meanings
    I switch back to myself
    When I’m alone
    Weaving webs of deceit
    You fall

    Your heart is heavy in my hands
    And I toss it away
    Without a care
    But you’re obsessed
    They all were
    I say it’s them
    But I know it’s me
    Creating it so subtly

    Moulding and painting
    I create my illusions
    So you don’t feel the distance
    Or see my detachment
    And your heart is heavier now
    But I let it fall
    Without a care

  2. stepstep says:

    NIGHT OWL

    One eye open
    Drifting to dozing to napping to
    Falling into a deep sleep to awaken once again to
    Staying up all night.

    Sleepwalking negates all stages
    Not getting into bed at a decent hour.
    I can feel my boy waking up chromosome by chromosome
    Way over into the night.

    Who? What? Where? Why? How?
    Does sleep seem like just a phase
    That passes throughout the day and night
    But during the day it seems to impose.

    No matter what, sleep won’t come at night
    Who will cure true insomnia?
    Why is night a desperate invitation
    To where I fall
    I have become a night owl.

    LaSteph

  3. bxpoetlover says:

    Night

    There is beauty in darkness, I whispered.
    Like when there is a blackout in New York City
    and you can finally see the stars.

    Don’t change the subject, he said.
    You haven’t told me why we have to make love with
    the lights off.

    Because. Because.
    When it’s dark I don’t worry
    about the dimples I wish were actually on my face
    stretch marks that refuse to fade
    or how I look when, you I’m about to, well, you know.

    He laughed. Baby, you feel soft and wet
    just the way I like. And I want to see your eyes.

    He reached over and clicked on the lamp.
    This time, I didn’t stop him.

  4. TuLife says:

    “Seductive Hypnosis”
    By: Tuere Aisha

    My sugar has power. Before he complimented me with his company tonight, I was flying in the blue stroking gray clouds because my nerves were bad, trying to balance unavoidable stresses like midterm exams and members of a taunting family that puts the fun in dysfunctional, but like damp grass drying under Florida rays, my problems vanished beneath his large, childlike smile. By some tactic, he always managed to perform this charmer’s trick that worked every time, when his two eyes produced that glimmer to illuminate the whole room; I liked to imagine they were only so enchanting when they focused on me. Like heaven’s expanse protecting the earth below, his arms roofed me in a wide embrace, shielding everything that harm’s long arm was reaching to attach. And he never forgot that end crescendo; it was so minute, yet crucial, like a hypnotist’s calm. I closed the gate to my troubles as he unwrapped his curative sack and let just three words depart with his horizontal, baritone voice. And with one wave of this conductor’s baton…I was gone.

  5. Snow Write says:

    Headlights dot the darkness
    in random intervals
    Illuminating the strange dichotomy between
    those who haven’t yet slumbered and
    the ones who are rested, starting their next day
    Some finishing a joy ride
    after a fun filled night
    Some eager (or not) to get to work
    or begin a new adventure
    All connected through the darkness
    by little dots of light

  6. LCaramanna says:

    Sheer Curtains

    After dark
    I walk
    my dog on leash,
    pass by homes,
    through sheer curtains
    glimpse neighbors
    at kitchen table,
    on sofa,
    in easy chair,
    walker within reach,
    newspaper in hand,
    game show on tv,
    cold beer and cigarette,
    microwave dinner,
    mundane moments
    of nightlife
    sheer curtains reveal
    after dark.

    Lorraine Caramanna

  7. bbjzmn says:

    day 6
    *******
    The cool, crisp leaves crunch under his feet

    he is upon them.

    they clasp their hands over their mouths and pray that he doesn’t hear their shallow breaths

    their prayers go unanswered

    they’re gone now

    the last to make it this far on this damned night lie here in this musty abandoned cabin.

  8. stepstep says:

    NIGHT OWL

    One eye open
    Drifting to dozing to napping to
    Falling into a deep sleep to awaken once again to
    Staying up all night.

    Sleepwalking negates all stages
    Not falling into bed at a decent hour
    I can feel my body waking up chromosome by chromosome
    Way over into the night.

    Who? What? Where? Why? How?
    Does sleep seem like just a phase
    That passes throughout the day and night
    But during the day it seems to impose.

    No matter what sleep won’t come at night
    Who will cure true insomnia?
    Why is night a desperate invitation
    To where I fall
    How I have now become a night owl.

    LaSteph

  9. ambermarie says:

    Monsters

    Creatures come out at night
    To fill the void
    Left undeclared by the creative ones
    Aching for expression, the darkness itself manifests
    As spells left uncast create a vacuum –
    A black hole playground now available for the devil’s deeds
    Minds undisciplined will be taken to hell
    Terrorized by unwelcome thoughts
    Demons which taunt the gentle goodwill of the selfish and greedy
    Vampires which suck the leftover lifeblood of the uninspired
    Zombies which consume the bored brains of those unthinking

  10. foodpoet says:

    One dark unlit lake
    One moonless night
    One gloomy spooky castle
    One window lit
    One dumb heroine
    One knight in waiting
    Oh one gothic novel to read

    Megan McDonald

  11. foodpoet says:

    Night after night
    Insomnia
    Grows
    Highlighting
    The day behind ahead

    Megan McDonald

  12. Brand New Obstacles
    ================
    Walking these floors in darkness
    Is quick when you know all the marks, lest
    The kids brought some rocks from the park, yes –
    Step on those and you’ll notice their sharpness.
    You’ll come up with a vivid remarkness!

  13. Jezzie says:

    I dread the night

    I am a creature of daylight.
    In daytime I will feel all right
    but when night time comes I feel fright.
    I dread the night, I dread the night.

    I like to get up with the lark
    and take my dog out in the park
    where she can run and play and bark.
    I hate the dark, I hate the dark.

    I’ll give you my subtle warning:
    I will rise when it is dawning.
    I detest dark in the morning:
    I keep yawning, I keep yawning

    I hate dark evenings most of all.
    They start as leaves begin to fall
    and carry on ’til Spring does call.
    I loathe nightfall, I loathe nightfall.

    The night belongs to owls and cats,
    or mice running around our flats,
    or werewolves howls, or skulking rats,
    or vampires’ bats, or vampires’ bats.

  14. Khara House says:

    sable lullaby

    The black of day drops in like honey on my tongue
    and the whole world cools to sweet mellow blues.

    Twilight comes ringing like a horn,
    like funny valentine snap, crackle, popping on the stereo,
    needle tracing melody over that rich black spine of vinyl
    revolving like the cosmos in the other room.

    Into this night shade I disappear like a long lost shadow,
    a mere whisper of myself from daylight,
    slipping off my vibrant hues for a dusky nude.

    I’m that chill down the spine of every darkened square,
    the pitter and patter of wild felines, paws
    taking to cobblestone like a lover.

    Wide awake in this giant night—
    I am even bigger than the stars.

  15. Zart_is says:

    Night Haiku

    Night in the country
    Bright shiny stars and moon glow
    Fresh sheets welcome me

    Night in the city
    Music dances with fireworks
    My sleepless delight

    Send in the vampires
    So sinister in the dark
    Waiting girls tremble

    (i) late entry for day six.(/i)

  16. Julieann says:

    Night Sky Mends the Brokenhearted

    Full moon shining bright
    Casting shadows left and right

    Stars twinkling way up high
    Forming constellations in the sky

    Planes flashing beacon lights
    Today’s armored shining knights

    Bringing lovers together again
    Bridging space and time and pain

    Into each other’s arms they fly
    No longer asking how or why

    Overlooking petty slights
    Forgetting both their fears and frights

    Hand in hand they walk along
    To this night they belong

    Full moon shining bright
    Casting shadows left and right

  17. pamelaraw says:

    Most Nights

    ~“Every so often, ever so once in a while, somedays a woman gets a chance to set in her window for a minute and look out.” ~Sweet Flypaper of Life p. 58

    Most nights, the window’s reflection
    is the only other black face I get to see

    without a mouth full of toothpaste,
    cheeks lifeless under the makeup smears,
    head bent tending to dirty hands.

    In the noon mirror, I assemble
    this image and its dark imperfections
    before I head back to my place.

    Nighttime is the only time I get to be
    with all of my selves–

    the part of me that still dreams
    of love emerging from shadows
    like haystacks and found needles.

    Myself wants to sit alone
    with the words dancing in her head.
    I just like the company

    as street lights flicker
    off and their hum fades
    into the moonless sky.

  18. schmads09 says:

    “My Nighttime Anomaly”

    How intriguing is nighttime?
    It is most commonly a symbol of darkness and mystery.
    As the old adage goes:
    “Nothing good happens after midnight.”

    Sometimes the strongest feelings of loneliness and grief
    Overcome you when the sun is no longer there for protection.
    And many of our craziest and darkest thoughts manifest themselves
    After the delirium created from late night exhaustion sets in.

    And yet, some of my most pure and positive ideas
    Have been born long after others are in bed.
    It is the time when there is least distraction from the outside world,
    Where I can collect my thoughts and let them be free.

    It could be argued whether or not this is healthy.
    “Your youth should not be spent creating bad sleeping patterns.
    How will you live a regular life with your nocturnal habits?”
    But I worry not, for I am content where I currently stand.

    If that day comes where I find it necessary to change,
    I will do whatever possible to make it happen.
    For now though, the darkness helps me see more clearly.
    The night is my friend.

  19. Paoos69 says:

    The tiny pomegranate shrub
    Shuddered in the breeze
    As the west turned from pink to purple,
    then to a dark dark blue.
    It orange flowers now shirking
    As the stars lit the sky
    And homes bathed in light
    Grandma urged me to go the toilet
    Before going to bed
    But I pondered thinking
    Of the monsters that hid
    Behind the pomegranate bush
    Yes, that same bush that in the day
    Waved at me with its bright green leaves
    Caressed me gently as I ran past it
    But at night it took on this ghastly form
    That scared the Hell out of me.

  20. Snowqueen says:

    Never lasts
    Ignites fear
    Gives a feeling of escape
    Heightens each sensation
    Thought provoking

  21. jean says:

    Dwindling Syllables, Dwindling Hope –

    Standing in the desert
    See the Milky Way
    Been a long time
    Las Vegas
    Glowing
    Damn

  22. My Wish Upon A Star

    One night would not be
    enough to last a lifetime,
    but it’s a good start.

  23. lethejerome says:

    “Passive”

    returning aperceptions meddle with my impossible
    escapes and glorious reinventions of daylight
    mobility and footfulness, leaving lapping laying

    Jérôme Melançon
    @lethejerome
    https://www.facebook.com/pages/JérômeMelançon/187153471341597

  24. Kay Kauffman says:

    Soothing Sounds
    Kay Kauffman

    Rain patters softly
    On the roof, lulling me to
    Sleep after a long

    Day at work. Is there
    Anything quite as soothing
    As a nice spring rain?

    (c) 2014. All rights reserved.

  25. PenConnor says:

    Night Cycle (an acrostic poem, repeated)

    nothing can quiet the voices
    in my head, in my heart, the
    grief of hearing you explain
    how you have no choice, but
    to choose her and leave me

    noises that mask themselves
    in the silence of darkness
    go ringing through my head
    heedless of my weary state
    torturing me with insomnia

    no hope of sleep can reach me
    i am a record stuck on repeat
    grasping for shadows of silence
    holding too tightly to the past
    tomorrow i’ll forget you more

    now i can only stare at darkness
    imagine this life without you
    gods know in time tears will dry
    hey, i might nap in the morning
    there’s hope for me after all

  26. Yolee says:

    Tonight

    Stars are pinned to slats of darkness
    on my bedroom window. The furled wings
    of my prayer slowly open. A heavy thought
    in my head will soon catch up with one sprinting
    in my heart. The avocado tree Papi planted
    “too close to the house” responds to the gust
    brewing all week long with two of its branches
    portioning out silence as needed.

  27. Geoffrey says:

    Haiku

    Luminous twilight
    dark clouds fly into the night:
    a thousand thousand bats

  28. My Knight in Teddy Bear PJ’s

    He announces
    his name is Frodo
    though I can stay Aunt Delaina.
    Welding a sword in the air
    he shouts
    “Look out
    behind you.”
    With practiced moves
    and confidence
    he skillfully rescues me
    time and time again
    from a peril only he can see.
    I thank him
    though he does not understand
    he frees my heart
    with his innocent grin.

  29. mimzy13 says:

    Summer Night

    Night spun from the labyrinth
    of her hair finds no silence
    listening
    on the other side of the wall

    gone. His heart shudders a wingless bird
    through the house the staircase
    twisting slow liquid spaces.
    Flicker of lace. He knows

    she haunts because she can, because
    he traces the day-lit
    threads of her absence until
    the moonlit camisole on the bed.

    Because her beauty survives
    like radium in the chest.

  30. Title: Adversaries of the Night

    Vampires and Werewolves,
    Eternal foes,
    Destined to be enemies.

    Both creatures of the night,
    Poles apart,
    But inhabit the same world.

    Working together,
    Blasphemy,
    But one day achieved.

    Adversaries,
    United in conquest,
    Adversaries of the Night.

  31. clcediting says:

    COLORS OF NIGHT

    When you’re young
    you color the night black
    because that’s what you see
    at first.

    But the night has many
    colors and shades
    of blues and whites,
    dim yellows
    and pale orange light.

    We don’t see them
    blind as we are
    by the noise and distraction
    of our cities.

    It’s when you go
    further out
    to places with no people,
    to the solitude of silence
    and raise your eyes
    that you might see the night
    how it’s meant to be seen.

    The concealing colors;
    varying hues of blues and blacks
    with brief patches of indigo
    or green
    or other colors
    not seen
    so much as felt.

    They arch over you
    like the ceiling of the chapel
    Michelangelo labored over
    for so many years.

    Nothing of human hands
    can ever fully capture
    the awe-inspiring beauty
    found on a clear, dark night.

  32. JamesW says:

    A shape poem that might not render as such here:
    BOTTLE THE NIGHT

    Bottle the night
    And put it away.
    Let it be light.
    Take away
    the dark’s blight.
    There is no fight left, nothing is right.
    Bottle the night and put it away, I say.
    Make fright take flight, and in the day
    we shall write of the night, and it will
    be alright. Let the day come in light
    dight. Let the twite at the sight of light,
    sing shrill in flight. Bottle the night
    and make my heart light. Tell the
    bleeding man from a knife fight,
    it’s almost light! The light stripper
    with stage fright, not long, you’ll
    be alright! The drunken man with
    a dog bite, the uptight girl roughly
    deflowered tonight, the fat boy
    that cowers from slight to slight-
    the relief of the light is at hand.
    In spite of each’s plight, hold tight;
    don’t let the darkness thee smite.
    Bottle the night, and let it bow
    before the might of the daylight.

  33. Joseph Hesch says:

    April, On My Pillow

    Comes April, as day nibbles away
    at both ends of night, not only
    the sharper angle of sunlight
    but of the dark in this room,
    illuminate thoughts best buried
    under the dust of years.

    I don’t fear these shadows
    crawling into my bed,
    settling next to my head
    on the pillow, because
    there was a time I believed
    that’s where they belonged.

    I’ll take these shards of darkness
    and how they wound me.
    Because to see these memories
    in the fleshy light of day
    would empty my heart, thus,
    washing away the dust beneath which
    these old dreams belong.

  34. foodpoet says:

    Night

    Nothing
    Is found I
    Gather notes from the night
    Hoping to find the verses written in the late hours
    To only find dreams and poetry fade in morning 

    Megan McDonald

  35. lily black says:

    How Can YOU just lie there?

    Elie’s “Night” lasted a lifetime.
    Rwanda marks 20 years unbelievably
    Russia may invade the Ukraine
    Genocide is raging
    I wake up in pitch-black darkness
    Not knowing where or why
    I am safe and warm
    Too warm
    Needing air
    I leave the couch
    For a too tall too soft brass bed
    With two fans blowing and
    Lie innocently between two curly poodles

  36. Blaise says:

    BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL, NIGHT PHANTOM

    Natural instinct
    hike down the canyon
    alone after midnight,
    glorious solitude
    away from civilization.

    No flashlight, just enough
    sentinel stars
    through moving clouds
    to trust the lay of the trail,
    crunch of pebbles the only sound,
    besides my breathing, suddenly rhythmic
    in 2, 3, 4,
    out 2, 3, 4,
    savoring my dance with the cosmos.

    When blackness erases all starlight
    my solitude turns somber.
    Now empty and alone,
    I startle at imagined sounds,
    a deeper primal instinct
    populates the dark
    with lurking phantoms.

    Knowing these are mind-born,
    I speed my pace
    in 2, 3, out 2, 3,
    faint joy of hiking in waltz time
    unable to appease the wild animal
    between my ears,
    must return to the rim – now.

    Frantic arrhythmic steps
    drive me up the trail
    towards the village.
    The first porch light
    drives away the beast,
    yet I know the phantoms lurk,
    to rise at my next dark thought.

  37. bookworm0341 says:

    “Because the night”

    Because the night
    belongs to the young,
    lightning bugs flash out morse code,
    as they tease eager children
    and life is ever so simple.

    Because the night
    belongs to lovers,
    the stars carve names in the galaxy
    as the moonlight dances softly on the river
    and life is full of surprises.

    Because the night
    belongs to everyone,
    silence can shout more than a thousand words,
    or just whisper a timid phrase into your ear
    and life is here- are you ready?

  38. Night

    You were born at night so long ago,
    but I remember the pain like waves remember the moon.
    I am a reservoir of salt water, reaching for you
    with the permanence of someone who understands
    that we are not on the same planet, but the pull
    is too strong to ignore. The cords forged inside
    cannot be broken by light or the expanse
    of space and time.

    Bend, bend down to me. Let me hold you for a little while.
    I promise to release you back into the heavens.

  39. SugarMagnolia says:

    Night

    It is in the night that the body settles and the mind gets restless
    Sometimes thoughts are overwhelming making sleep impossible
    It’s not just the worries and stress of the day
    But rather the years of crazy that has settled in my brain
    I don’t know why these thoughts invade a time I should be at peace
    I try to remind myself of all I have to grateful for in my life
    Usher the thoughts out with memories of happy times and lighter days
    Yet, still, my mind is encompassed in the darkness of night

  40. KiManou says:

    Every Night

    to sit within the constellations
    until the twilight of our lives
    counting serendipity on every inch of your skin
    lost in the afterglow
    hovering in the heavens
    is where I want to be
    in the coronation of triumphant love
    with you

    eMinor

  41. nmbell says:

    Night Poem

    The evening is drawing in
    Over the slough in the back forty
    The water fowl are scattered like so many tiny ships
    Out of the darkening sky comes the wail of wild good music
    Like demented bagpipers they cry down sunset
    A smudge appears on the horizon
    And the hiss of mighty wings in the wind
    Precedes the arrival of incoming flocks

    Gwin ap Nudd’s Wild Hunt settles on the mirror smooth waters
    Amid great greetings and protestations of those already there
    The night gathers and light fades and still they come
    Ghosting through the autumn dusk
    For some this will be their last journey
    As they fall victim to the hunters joys
    I count the numbers in the columns of Vs against the night
    Uneven numbers bring sorrow to my heart
    They signify there are birds who have lost their life mates

    How great a love they must feel
    And a profound and unwavering sense of loyalty
    To cleave to a mate who no longer flies at their wingtips

    Like the March Hare I’m late, but here it is April 6 poem delivered on April 8

  42. robinamelia says:

    Catching up…

    Bob, the night clerk

    The cemetery dump truck was empty
    as it passed him; its load of fresh dirt
    heaped by the bank of the sad Hackensack.

    Bob parked, and tried to forget the mound
    as he watched the guests pass by, press
    elevator buttons and disappear.

    Bob had a bottle in his desk, and as drank
    he started calling all the chambermaids,
    only to hear, “ain’t no cleaning emergency

    so bad I’m coming in at three in the morning”
    in some variation from all of us.
    It must have been around four

    when he walked back out for some air,
    the river to one side of the parking lot;
    the highway to the other.

    Traffic was light at that hour, just a few cars,
    making towards the bridge, beating rush hour,
    so he strolled, along the side, then along the median.

    In the morning, before we put on our yellow polyester,
    each maid told an officer about her late night phone call
    with Bob, the night clerk, who was struck by a car, and killed.

    I looked at the dirt pile by the river and wondered
    if the truck would be bringing the dirt
    from the space his coffin would take up.

    Robin Amelia Morris

  43. Earl Parsons says:

    Night Revenge

    My bladder called at 3 am
    It woke me from a dream
    I threw the covers to the side
    I really had to pee
    My feet swung out then hit the floor
    I turned toward the bath
    I couldn’t see ahead of me
    Toe, meet doorframe, SMASH!

    As I fell quickly to the floor
    The bed frame met my knee
    My wife rose quickly out of bed
    And asked it that was me
    I could not answer in such pain
    Just groan and hold on tight
    Then she came crashing down on me
    Revenge of the burnt night light

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  44. ToniBee3 says:

    “Hootenanny for Two”

    Hoot-hoot
    Feather-puffed, alone, aloof
    She perches upon a bonnet rooftop
    Unmindful of his ember eyes
    Gazing from the birch
    He swoops stealthily
    Alighting near her presence

    Screeeeech!
    An awkward greeting
    Nevertheless an electric happenstance
    He clicks his talons in a dance for her
    Except she is apathetic
    Until he recognizes her fixation:
    An assortment of night crawlers adorning the soil

    Screeeeech!
    He bobs and weaves, then pounces
    Once… twice… thrice
    Retrieving succulent snails and red wigglers
    To present as gifts to his delighted huntress
    With open wings, she accepts
    Indulging in earth’s delicacies

    Hoot-hoot, screeeeech!
    Guards down, the revel commences
    A talon-tapping hootenanny for two
    Hootin’ and screamin’, cacklin’ and clickin’
    Harmonizing hoot-ballads with shrieking jingles
    Chattering throughout the soul of the night
    “Raising the roof” until the hour before dawn

    Later she obliges him with a cuddle
    He preens the snarls in her plumage
    They, with the moon, bid farewell to the dark
    Two smitten raptors, taking flight
    Leaving their mark upon the rooftop
    Bestowing to it… plentiful pellets
    Hoot-hoot, screeeeech!

  45. that night
    I tapped into
    my inner showgirl–
    how everything brimmed
    with sequined light and jazzy dreams

  46. JayGee2711 says:

    Night I Name You

    Night I name you snow swept canyon
    black robe river, mountain song
    Night I name you wolf pack creeping
    forest shadows, rain on stone.

    Stars I name you fields of crocus
    shattered lightning, flocking birds
    Moon I name you cat’s eye raindrop
    salmon leaping, silver fern.

    Night I name you flight of ravens
    swift as thunder, soft as dawn
    Night I name you moth wings rising
    Journey safely swiftly home.

  47. brelynnj says:

    Heavy sighs, weakened breath, still crisp reflect on moon lit breath
    Bodies entwined by silken red, pooling in synergistic threads
    Speaking boldly with its stain, its movement clearly shouts their names,
    Crimson drops climb down the stairs, seeping into green despair,
    Roots caught word and told the leaves which moaned to life a wicked breeze,
    The Crows they felt the desperate screams and shrieked to all ”This will be seen,”
    Tingling chills runs down your back, the bloods now spoken of its attack.

    B.L Johnson 2014

  48. Winter-Rose says:

    the cold wind on her chin, in her hair
    the scythe resting heavy on her shoulder
    she glanced at the sand in the hour glass,
    two minutes to go,
    she moved the scythe to the other arm
    when he walked around the corner 117 seconds later she’d almost started to doubt
    but there he was,
    and there was the thin silver line connecting him to the grey clouds above
    she stepped out to stand in front of him
    he stopped in surprised
    then fell down onto the pavement when her blade cut his silver line
    she looked as the shimmering thread disappeared up in the sky,
    gave the empty street a contempted nood
    and walk out through a shadow

  49. BezBawni says:

    HANDS
    (nocturnal wake)

    tick-tock
    three—on the clock
    two—on your hips
    one—on my lips
    one—on the wall (fingers and all)
    push. stroke.
    breathe. smoke.
    tick-tock
    ____________
    by Lucretia Amstell

  50. Last night I realized
    it’s been months
    and I can still taste your memory.
    I can still remember
    the way you felt next to me.
    It’s been months
    and you’re still in my thoughts at two A.M.
    I wake up with the taste of your name on my lips.
    It’s been months
    and my body isn’t so sore anymore.
    I think I’m getting used to
    you being gone.
    It’s becoming familiar.
    But darling
    it’s been months
    and I still miss you.
    -Jaleese Nicole, Months

  51. donnellyk says:

    My Best Friend Emma

    My old dog totters,
    feeble, hopeful, shoots
    furtive glances at me, at the closet.
    Here, her cherished pleasures are kept,
    the treats and dog jewelry,
    the highlight of her aging day.
    Slipper feet, sweaty, like
    Stinky P-U sachets attached,
    she prances, ladylike,
    sending puffs of Frito smell “let’s go” anxiety
    about the foyer that echoes her tapping.
    She holds perfectly still, the queen,
    dons her shiny chain necklace, clinking,
    trailing leash ribbon blue.
    Resigned to be mom tethered
    for a step in the night,
    a brief sprint, laughing,
    we fly through the cool night air,
    our hair flowing~
    and spittle flying~
    We are young again,
    what joy under the moon!
    We end mid flight to a slow trot,
    but not without a mutual grin.
    I see the whites of her eyes in the dark,
    As she looks up at me, grateful.
    We cross the street for
    her other cherished pleasure, home..
    We look both ways.

  52. joanne.elizabeth says:

    “Insomnia”

    croaking frog
    crooning owl
    creaking house
    creepy howl
    cracking branch
    crunching leaf
    cricking back
    cresting breeze
    cryptic cry
    cruising cars
    crazy thoughts
    crawling hours

    -Joanne Edgington Henning

  53. hohlwein says:

    Camera – Night Sensor

    I can take pictures now in the dark, or try.
    The image still misses the three degree value difference between the shifting privet tree night shadow
    and the stucco wall or its surface – suburban moon dust sparkle

    The skytrees and phonelines line up under the wedge moon and make
    as much sense as they can as place, home, context, frame
    wanting clearly like I do
    – if they can want -
    to
    blur to not
    wake for awhile
    as always
    to not ever be captured

  54. The Moon Called Last Night

    The moon called last night,
    three fifty-one am. Full
    to the brim— she had to tell
    someone. When I answered,
    she was speechless, perhaps
    as much in awe of me as I of her.
    Maybe she called not so much
    to say anything as to exceed
    her boundaries, have me
    exceed mine.

    Ani Tuzman

  55. Jane Shlensky says:

    What Shines

    Needing to get away from home a while,
    if only on a hill beyond the house,
    we waited for dark to wrap us in its light.

    Lying on our backs we fell through sky,
    a velvet basin pocked with many stars,
    and named the ones we knew, pointing above.

    We felt the universe pull at our eyes,
    reversing gravity as we fell up,
    our souls aglitter freed to float in space,

    a seed of being in us taking root
    until we lay still, filled with something right,
    ourselves now heaven’s rib cage, arching out.

    I’m old now, creaking bones keep me upright—
    no sleeping on the ground, waking in dew.
    But I still carry moon dust, starry night,

    remembering the pull of being part
    of something big, mysterious, and true
    we, tiny twinkles, dazzled by the night.

  56. Crista Jackson says:

    Moksha

    You carried the rucksack full of
    Cookpots, like an empty paper bag
    up the Matterhorn.

    The cold caught our breath—
    echo and ice
    held each word
    a second too long.

    We mixed yesterday’s bread with
    snow in skillets over fire.
    Eyes like new moons
    saw the world reborn.

    Warmed ourselves by
    dancing to the pulse of
    whistling wind. Fell into the
    snow and looked up.
    Stars overhead
    close enough to pluck.

    We measured them
    thumb to forefinger
    and dared not move.

  57. Melahlah says:

    Sporadic insomniacs, the two of us
    Who loved night under the stars.
    He’d walk the rim of the pond and
    The grooves of the grove in moonlight.
    Traces of lingering orange blossoms
    Hovered like phantom scents.
    The season over, just stragglers remained
    Who’s frangrance I, musing on the porch swing,
    Would fill up with and store until next season.
    At some point he would see me
    Swaying lazily back and forth,
    Listening to the whip-poor-wills calling.
    He’d saunter over, easy, mellow
    And we’d sit, silent or not,
    Enjoying our mutual sleeplessness
    Under imperturbable night stars.
    Now, memories of him stored in sorrow
    Float by without warning at times,
    Strangely serene, unflappable, mesmerizing
    Phantoms hovering in my mind.
    The resigned, bitter-sweet kind.

  58. Zeenie says:

    what i learn from dreams

    Last night, I lost all my teeth.
    My tongue against spotted pearls –
    each hour, I felt one more
    loosening from gummy roots,
    lodging itself in the back
    corner of my throat.

    In each swallowed tooth -
    the homeless face I ignored,
    the baby brother I neglected,
    the best friend I could not save –

    truths I can only face
    in the vortex of the night.

  59. Aberdeen Lane says:

    sun has set
    the cafe is quiet now
    only a saxophone
    and cigarette smoke
    breathe in sync
    floating through
    city streets
    smells of all night tacos, pizza
    then late, the bakeries
    fresh bread
    a gentle rain
    umbrella to cover
    the saxophone
    the cigarette
    to find a corner
    to mix the jazz

  60. Grey_Ay says:

    Why is it the night
    that holds so many secrets
    that holds so many possibilities

    Why is it in the night
    that lovers come together
    but those in love are alone

    Why is it in the night
    that the rain is so much sweeter
    and the wind is only a ghost

    Why is it in the night
    that lives change, decisions made
    but it is the day the speaks the truth?

    -A. Ault-

  61. Reynard says:

    it’s funny that i like to watch
    scary shows
    late at night
    when they scare me the most
    i don’t watch the ones
    where the monsters
    are fake
    instead i watch the ones
    where the monsters
    are real
    and then i imagine them
    outside my door
    and i stay awake
    hearing every sound coming for me
    i watch the night fade
    and with morning
    it seems ridiculous
    until the next week
    and a new episode

  62. Night Light

    A small bulb behind a plastic
    sea shell is all she needs
    to believe she is safe
    from the shadows or, better yet,
    a part of them, lovingly molded,
    night after night, by their folds
    and edges, until she is soft
    and unafraid, her steady heart
    tumbled gently by dreams of the sea.

  63. Nanamaxtwo says:

    Insomnia

    “I just lie there and keep perfectly still and rest through it…”
    Ernest Hemingway

    Night hours collect my lifetime regrets,
    hurling them about my weary mind
    like a winter storm whirls down
    the Alberta prairies into Idaho,
    obliterating believability of denial.

    Admission of faults, the maelstrom of memorized
    hurt sucks down one sunset to the next night’s last
    light, but during the day regrets must swim
    through sweet alcohol, drowning before
    they reach the shore of my consciousness.

  64. Beth Rodgers says:

    So many instincts
    So much emotion
    Sometimes aggression
    Always devotion.

    Times when I’m happy
    Times when I’m sad
    Times when courage is
    What I must have.

    Energetic and bubbly
    Yet sometimes depressed
    There’s a slew of feelings
    To which I confess.

    I love love and kindness
    Creativity and laughter
    I’m passionate and resourceful
    Happiness is what I’m after.

    It’s really quite simple –
    I’m a person with hopes
    And I won’t settle for being
    Someone who copes.

  65. d dyson says:

    My night, he says,
    ‘Come to me with your dreams
    and I will watch you as you sleep.
    I will cradle your thoughts,
    your desires, your beliefs,
    so darling, hush now,
    come to me with your dreams,
    into my arms,
    and I will watch you as you sleep.’

  66. d dyson says:

    My night, he says
    ‘come to me with your dreams
    and I will watch you as you sleep.
    I will cradle your thoughts, your desires,
    your beliefs,
    so darling, hush now,
    come to me with your dreams
    into my arms,
    and I will watch you as you sleep.

  67. NIGHT LIFE

    Six stars are
    shining through the inky blue
    ether of evening

    battling the buzzing,
    happy haze of city life,
    where the lights

    never go out,
    and downtown domestics always do;
    where screens glow

    from every wall
    and in every pocket as
    we search for

    meaning at the
    speed of 4G two inches
    from our faces

    and forget that
    all the answers are always
    right above us

    if we’d just
    take a moment to breathe
    and look up

  68. MMC says:

    And Then What

    Talk to me
    about your night fears.
    How you keep the light on
    beside your bed, hoping
    you won’t wake and feel
    the terror. How you sleep
    on your side, turned away
    from the window, knowing
    they could come through
    anyway. How your dreams
    are the only things that save
    you from your own dread.
    How ready you are
    to plunge into whatever is on
    the other side of night.

  69. brandonspeck says:

    (day late. womp.)

    real-tree moves in silence

    there are some nights out here
    when the moon is a headlamp
    for the entire woods,

    and the night sky radiates
    a blanket of dim purple
    as the stars shine brighter than the black-holes

    this is a hidden kind of togetherness,
    camouflage friendship of sharpened arrows
    and a frontier of tattooed forest.

    There is strange comfort
    in calling into the woods
    and hearing the woods call back.

    //brandon speck

  70. kimberleetm says:

    Lonely Doetie

    Toy in mouth
    she howls
    for the day gone by,
    the treats not eaten
    the company trundled
    off to bed
    where her brother
    sleeps beside us.
    He taught her long ago
    the night was his.

  71. mschied says:

    Twilight on the Bus

    Delightful daydreams in my cozy corner
    are precipitously punctuated by the cumbersome conversion
    of the bus from soporific waddle to gaseous hiccups

    now what?

    Our flustered but undaunted leader embarks on a mission
    fueled by want of the same

    well, this won’t take too long, will it?

    as a gallant Six-Foot-Four, All Muscles,
    lopes along behind in belated escort

    groooooowl

    one half of one hour, a grizzled farmer,
    and a plywood-sided mid-century pickup later
    the gas-guzzler has gulped a restorative draught

    but our predicament endures due to:
    “a strict procedural mandate – only the
    CERTIFIED MECHANIC FROM SYRACUSE
    can injectify the primus, or something like that”

    I’m hungry!

    as dusk enfolds our caravan in its sinuous shadows
    panic begins to insidiously slither down the aisle

    it’s getting late, and DARK!

    a delayed call to emergency services
    finally arrives in a revolving show of red and blue
    punching through the dark curtain outside
    in a rapid, unceasing staccato

    I have to work in the morning!!

    fortunately heralding the exquisitely overdue
    entrance of one El Mechanico
    a tug
    a twist
    a poke
    a hose
    a grunt
    a rattle
    <oh, for piston's sake, I'm going stir-crazy here!!!!!
    a chug-a-chug
    a chug-a-chug-chug
    a chug-a-chug-chug-chug-chug-chug
    purrrrrrricupurrrrricupurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
    finally sends us on our way

    listless from the instantaneous evaporation of frustration
    the passengers succumb to snoozing snores
    once again lulled as the conveyance wobbles off into the night

    • mschied says:

      oops, one of my italics failed

      Twilight on the Bus

      Delightful daydreams in my cozy corner
      are precipitously punctuated by the cumbersome conversion
      of the bus from soporific waddle to gaseous hiccups

      now what?

      Our flustered but undaunted leader embarks on a mission
      fueled by want of the same

      well, this won’t take too long, will it?

      as a gallant Six-Foot-Four, All Muscles,
      lopes along behind in belated escort

      groooooowl

      one half of one hour, a grizzled farmer,
      and a plywood-sided mid-century pickup later
      the gas-guzzler has gulped a restorative draught

      but our predicament endures due to:
      “a strict procedural mandate – only the
      CERTIFIED MECHANIC FROM SYRACUSE
      can injectify the primus, or something like that”

      I’m hungry!

      as dusk enfolds our caravan in its sinuous shadows
      panic begins to insidiously slither down the aisle

      it’s getting late, and DARK!

      a delayed call to emergency services
      finally arrives in a revolving show of red and blue
      punching through the dark curtain outside
      in a rapid, unceasing staccato

      I have to work in the morning!!

      fortunately heralding the exquisitely overdue
      entrance of one El Mechanico
      a tug
      a twist
      a poke
      a hose
      a grunt
      a rattle
      oh, for piston’s sake, I’m going stir-crazy here!!!!!
      a chug-a-chug
      a chug-a-chug-chug
      a chug-a-chug-chug-chug-chug-chug
      purrrrrrricupurrrrricupurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
      finally sends us on our way

      listless from the instantaneous evaporation of frustration
      the passengers succumb to snoozing snores
      once again lulled as the conveyance wobbles off into the night

  72. azkbc says:

    Night-time Rendezvous

    Last night I heard you get up,
    flick on the hall light
    and pad quickly down the hall
    calling out urgently,
    “Mommy, I have to go potty!”
    I lay in bed
    and watched the street light
    peek around the window shade
    and saw the closed door
    framed by the hall light.
    It’s comforting when you call
    and Mommy is there.
    Soon I heard
    “Thank you, Mommy”
    as the hallway darkened
    and your door closed.
    How do I tell you both
    to enjoy these quiet moments
    in the middle of the night
    when it’s just the two of you?
    They will be gone much too quickly.

  73. “Stitching in the ditch”

    How I love her
    fingers poised, Arching on a ballet barre,
    trained en pointe with thimble and thread,
    a painter’s lilting grace. She is not bone like
    I am hard and bent with bitter root. She is
    not carved like I am stone in ditches sold
    to lords of war At night I love her
    dance in calico rose and tulle
    pearling swirling in wine
    and pinwheels Soothing
    Soothing our dreams
    in knotted threads
    of peace.

  74. Here’s to my university years… :-)
    ***
    Nights
    When I dreamt of all I wanted –
    mainly lying awake,
    or smoking at the window.

    Sadness painted my nails black
    when I was deep down,
    I thought I could see the night in them.

    Inner overflowing painted my entire outfit black.

    Nights of my college years,
    I remember – soft,
    lonely, and cold.
    Filled with waking dreams
    and futile wildness.

    My nails, painted in shiny black
    and a “friend” on my Facebook
    now
    only
    remind me of those
    young nights.
    ###

  75. dolsz35 says:

    The moon last night
    reminded me of you,
    it cracked open my heart
    forcing me to notice
    the void that you left
    and I realized.
    There are very few things
    more beautiful
    than watching the moon
    with you;
    and i wept
    like my little brother did
    when our mother left.
    You remember that?
    You had promised me,
    you would never leave us alone.
    You said to me,
    pointing to your chest:
    “this is your home.”
    Home is gone now,
    so is the moon’
    there are oily clouds now,
    blocking the view.

  76. Switch Off the Lamp
    Let senses inhale the night
    Muggy, with moonlight streaming in
    Spring frog choirs chirping a cappella nearby
    The faintest whisper of a breeze flutters across
    Fresh-from-the-clothesline scented sheet pulled up
    Hands reach, fingers lace, drawing the two of us together
    Lips part, kiss lasts… lasts until breathing is necessary again
    Muscles relax, thoughts abate; your breath soft on my cheek slows down
    Hours or minutes pass
    -which I do not know-
    eyes flutter open
    and dreamily I wonder
    if moonlight, frog choirs,
    sheets, breezes, and even you
    lying by my side are real or imagined; for these are the very things that fantasies are made of.

  77. rferrier says:

    LAST NIGHT

    i dreamt of meeting your parents for the first time,
    though in reality
    i’ve known them for almost a year now.

    in the dream…

    your parents were the same.
    your sister, different.
    an entirely different person.
    younger.
    different hair.
    in college.
    i’m not sure why.

    you had 5 dogs.
    i remember that clearly.
    5 of them.
    though i can’t tell you what any of them looked like.

    i let them –
    your parents –
    into the building.
    they didn’t know it was me.
    the one they were there to meet.

    when they discovered we were the same –
    “her” and “me” –
    they were shocked.
    i’m not sure why.

    then, i woke.

  78. madeline40 says:

    Night

    I keep thinking about
    Kay Jamieson’s book
    Night Falls Fast.
    But she doesn’t write about
    the setting sun,
    the sky lit with stars
    the romance of lovers kissing
    on a park bench somewhere
    under a lone street lamp
    No, she writes about death
    the kind of night
    that never turns into morning,
    the black of night
    that won’t ever see
    the day’s bright lights again.

  79. Mustang Sal says:

    Kristallnacht

    Evil always works under cover of dark
    where it can’t see its own ugly reflection,
    though it looks to stamp it’s oppressive footmark
    as it did that infamous night in question.

    For schools, synagogues, hospitals and homes
    there was no escape, no sabbath, no shalom.
    Stricken, hammered, looted, raped and burnt en masse,
    lives, families, spirits crushed like broken glass.

  80. Another Night
    Elyse Brownell

    By the time I got to the bar
    you were already drunk.

    I sat down and ordered whiskey, neat,
    running my fingers through my hair,

    thinking about whether what I wore
    was going to be enough,

    wishing I had worn the blue dress instead.
    “You look nice” you said, slamming back

    another beer.

    I wondered about everyone else but us,
    If I was just another girl sitting next to you,

    watching you drink your beers down
    and offer compliments,

    soaking wet from the condensation
    collecting on the side walls of this glass

    hour. The bartender returned with my drink,
    asked if I needed anything else,

    I tipped my head back and swallowed
    the top shelf whiskey, smooth, and down my throat,

    you were saying something about your walk here,
    about the rain, but nothing about our knees touching

    as you asked for another.

  81. JRSimmang says:

    UNLOCK

    In these three walls,
    the thesis of his graduating class,
    we spoke honestly for the
    first time
    since his view was
    cut in 30 narrow slits.

    “My favorite time is
    after the lights are turned off
    because I can still remember
    the
    way your mother’s
    hair smelled
    and
    how you
    used to laugh
    at my faces.”

    When was it the
    chill dropped into town?

    -JR Simmang

  82. lidywilks says:

    Then and Now
    From a robin egg blue tube top dress painted onto my brown skin
    to a fluffy black and white, cotton pajama set

    From hovering upon the ground in black, 4 inch platforms
    to snuggling my toes in leopard, fuzzy slippers.

    From shots and wine dancing my body to a feverish heat
    to tucking the kiddies to bed, relishing my deserved down time.

    From standing underneath the sparklers blazing in the night sky
    to sinking under the covers with my chromebook immersing myself in asian dramas.

    From collapsing onto the bed, ripe with sweat and alcohol, when I return home
    to marathoning my latest drama find and newest favorite OTP.

    From then and to now, I’m still the same book but with a different cover,
    And before morning comes, for a little bit of fun, this is how I embrace the night.

    by Lidy Wilks

    http://iheartallstories.weebly.com/

  83. jadetney says:

    Skinny dipping at midnight

    grey water, misty and opaque
    softly lapping
    sea binds to sky
    binds to skin
    i am belly-deep
    limbs fading in the distance
    we float through through the atmosphere
    cuddled by clouds
    spinning in wine and salt
    the muted darkness
    falling through us

  84. C.R. Klein says:

    Hi, I posted a poem late yesterday evening for this prompt and it has never appeared in these comments here. I want to have a chance to be in the book, so can you please check your moderation queue or your spam folder to see if my poem somehow ended up there? I know I was a first time poster and first time posters have to be approved first, but surely it should have shown up by now.

    Thank you so much.

    • When you’re new to posting to the site, your posts go into a folder and need to be approved before they get posted–and I’m the one that has to approve them to confirm the posts aren’t spam (we get a TON of spam). Once I approve the first couple, you won’t have problems anymore and the posts will show up automatically and immediately. Often, if the first posts by a new user are on Friday afternoon or over the weekend or on a day I’m not in the office, I won’t be able to go through the folder until I return.

      Anyway, you are now approved and can post away! Welcome to the Writer’s Digest community.
      Brian
      Online Editor

  85. Mr. Take The Lead says:

    Greatness in the Night
    Daniel R. Simmons

    The skies darken as your inspiration sparks the imagination and explodes into greatness.
    Anger turns into creativity, pain turns into inspiration and failure turns into motivation.
    all the pressure of the pain, the failures, the hurt, the heartbreaks, the setbacks and anger, builds and spins forming into a whirlwind of passion and greatness-sweeping through the town of your critics and naysayers,
    as their words and actions spin high in the air and tossed forcefully aside.
    They’re not hurting you but pushing you
    and building you.
    Those failures? They’re not stopping you but igniting determination,
    so don’t get or stay angry, hurt, frustrated and sad;
    but instead channel your emotions into what you are most passionate about and let greatness shine through the pain.
    Yes greatness is like a tornado that sweeps through the night
    It is displayed emotions, passion and imaginations, violently spinning out of control as your believers and non-believers get caught in your storm and all doubt about you gets swept away. Greatness is a storm that leaves fear, hurt and failure under the rumble of the aftermath of your success.
    So let your greatness boil over because the clouds are getting heavy and the air is still-
    Yes, there is a storm brewing called your success. Because your failures were nothing but the calm before the storm- so tell your doubters to seek shelter because it’s about to rain in the night.

  86. PatsC says:

    Corner of Night

    Sunset over the dale,
    A Maxfield Parrish mural
    Of coral pink, turquoise blue,
    Golden end of day.

    Above small fingers,
    Fireflies race,
    to allude the glass prison
    Of nightlight jar.

    Bedtime beckons,
    Laughter and play are stilled.
    A glittering of stars,
    The lullaby of moon.

    A flurry of movement,
    The forsythia hedge conceals.
    The neighborscape shifts,
    The dark forest edges closer.

    Unreasonable fear
    Anxious and alert,
    The third eye awakens
    Impatient and primal.

    The intellect reminds,
    All is well, fear not.
    But unease remains,
    As darkness closes in.

    Heat lightening,
    Eerily illuminates,
    The rim of sky.
    Broken light adding to
    The chaos inside.

    Steadily prepare,
    Arise, put up chair.
    Across the welcome mat,
    And into reassurance.

    Suburban security,
    With the turning of lock,
    The pouring of wine,
    The calming of home.

  87. De Jackson says:

    Ceilings Clad in Ebony

    Did you lose yourself somewhere out there? Did you get to be a star?
                                                    - GooGoo Dolls, Name

    I imagine you now as the buckle
    in Orion’s belt, or perhaps the point
    in the archer’s arrow, the narrow
    pleat in Andromeda’s skirt, the
    glint in Canis Minor’s eye. The
    sky is my only friend, and I send
    whispered prayers to each stray
    light, fight the urge to join you
    up there in all that sable ink.

    .

  88. ina says:

    523.4

    An infinity of space
    hidden beneath .01 and .09.
    A Mars as clement as the
    Aghulas current relives
    lush nights;
    Enceladus nurses its vast lake.
    Even the silver moon, just now
    living in the night sky hanging
    from periwinkle Venus has
    polar caps a penguin might envy.
    There is so much grace between Dewey’s
    numbers, each a placeholder for the
    narrow and yet limitless,
    spaces that can dream of living.

  89. RebekahJ says:

    Reposting to correct typo in original. Apologies.

    August Midnight, 1996
    139 East 12th St., New York City

    In 4A, a thin young woman
    Checks the lock the stove the lock
    Lies down, gets up to do it all again
    Twenty, thirty times before she rests
    Shallow sleep of caffeinated brain
    Muscles not unfurled
    Coiled, as they will be decades later
    When she strokes her daughter’s hair at bedtime
    Swearing silently she will not check downstairs

    The women in 4B are drinking, lasciviously
    As is their wont.
    Gin washing vodka washing champagne washing skin
    Bass rippling from their stereo through the walls
    My God I love you says the older one through laughter
    As if she’ll never regret it
    And she won’t
    Even when her tawny beauty’s gone

    And upstairs the English teacher
    Who does not yet know that she has cancer
    Is breathing in the smell
    Of a man who thinks she’s funny
    Who will marry her in a dance hall
    And who, on the morning the Towers fall, will weep
    Not for them but for her, sitting beside him in frozen traffic
    When she should be getting chemo
    Waiting, dying slowly on a bridge

    Above their roof, the yellow moon looks small
    Outshone by the city’s globe of light
    And the traffic won’t stop coming
    Incessant current pulsing red and white

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  90. shethra77 says:

    Sun Gone Down

    Evening falls.
    Clouds breathe up from the damp ground,
    swirl around the stars,
    frame the moon.

    Wind sighs through
    tiny branches above.
    Trees sway lightly
    in their nightly dance.

    An owl somewhere in the woods
    gliding, hooting softly
    sets small creatures scurrying
    under dry leaves.

    I walk across the field
    small in that expanse of grass
    as the walkers overhead
    travel small but glowing.

  91. lina says:

    night

    no one sleeps anymore
    the refrigerator light is on
    the dog paces in the hall
    screens blink
    the couch settles
    and the movie starts at midnight;
    on the sill, the tulips
    from the grocery store
    open before dawn
    as if they don’t need sun
    or want it.

  92. veronica_gurlie says:

    Really Flawed.

    I’m not so perfect, I will tell you,
    see my crooked smile,
    I have gone to bed, with my makeup smeared,
    knowing I look creepy, and crazy,
    I’ve staggered in streets,
    with other peoples, ego masturbating funk,
    floating from my cracks,
    and I have drunk too much, self-pity ejaculations,
    I tell you, I’ve been marked, by some damn ugly shame,
    I have just woke up, and wondered,
    how did I NOT, kill myself,
    when I cut off my own life support,
    by loving me, the worse that I can.

  93. ianchandler says:

    4

    Four in the morning, he said,
    is the best hour of the day. Blown puddles
    and fuzzy streetlamps and pebbled
    asphalt. Still shadows enough to make you
    look over your shoulder, but not enough
    to force a basalt metropolis on your shoulders.
    A Danish strip of winter latticed over
    bridges like a paperthin camisole
    is now hunched as a slug.
    Bodies buzz like electric guitars
    in that dry ice club you spent other nights
    in to get out of the night, a cabinet of
    sweat and glitter. You always ate the olive
    first to stall any dreamy mashing of skin
    because the thought of it drove you
    over the edge of the same bridge. Its hefty
    promise and taste of day-old bottled water
    could not comfort you, could not coddle
    you in lace and dough, the way you now
    see the same bridge, as if that gazebo
    where you lost it
    is only a rest stop now.

  94. jsmadge says:

    Purgatory: Night In Hospital

    “Watch, O Lord, with those who wake, or watch, or weep this night . . . ”
    - Prayer of St. Augustine

    She looks out the window down
    By the elevators; the between-place
    Where people come and go, don’t stop.
    Neither home nor hospital,
    They tread among near promises and disappointment,
    Balancing here with there. She watches
    Toy cars dropping off and picking up
    And shortened nurses smoking
    And white coat sine waves
    Following doctors’ shoulders.

    Jo Steigerwald

  95. shelaghart@yahoo.com says:

    Night Thrall

    Moon shining on shore
    Driftwood my throne, I survey
    Surf’s sparkling strand

  96. keepkeepingmesane says:

    “Filtration”
    by Jeremy Johnson

    I let the night in through my wounds.
    And let it out through my words,
    Making some wounds worth having.

  97. If Days were Blackjack, each Night I would Bust

    Gloaming is gorgeous just as it is surreal.
    Of course, like so many other harbingers
    gloaming is a sign of nightfall.
    Since 10th grade, 8pm has been the hour
    of reckoning. After Eight, I’ve said
    so many times, and meant after nightfall.
    I’ve said it in poems, again and again.
    I’m saying it now and it’s not even night.
    I know what’s coming, but I don’t.
    Night sets in like a fever.

  98. Mokosh28 says:

    Dark Comfort

    As I rock and rock searching for your
    sleep and mine, Little One, I know
    that this wakefulness is pure.
    Your cries call me when there is no sign
    of dawn, nothing outside the window
    visible. Now your hiccoughing
    breath matches the rhythm
    of this chair in which our bodies
    carry each other past fear, which is
    blindness alone. We travel together
    into a place of softness and
    skin, knowing from lives long before
    our own that at this hour,
    touch is enough.

  99. Nightmare

    Night seeps into my room
    like leaking gas –
    I lie in bed, feeling the dark
    rock me to netherworlds,
    to chnothic depths
    where winds wail, howl
    through caverns of the mind;
    I wander through woods,
    pursued by voices
    susurrusing through branches
    tearing my hair
    as I run run for daylight
    drowning in eyes
    larger than the moon.

  100. gus says:

    Day 6: Night

    The darkness consumes
    The room that was filled with light,
    And I cannot see.

    I extend my arm,
    Reaching for something to touch,
    To guide my blind eyes.

    But as I’m reaching,
    I find there’s nothing around,
    And I am alone.

    Falling through darkness;
    Blind inside the empty void;
    Welcoming the night.

    -Gus Gonzalez

  101. RebekahJ says:

    August Midnight, 1996
    139 East 12th St., New York City

    In 4A, a thin young woman
    Checks the lock the stove the lock
    Lies down, gets up to do it all again
    Twenty, thirty times before she rests
    Shallow sleep of caffeinated brain
    Muscles not unfurled
    Coiled, as they will be decades later
    When she strokes her daughter’s hair at bedtime
    Swearing silently she will not check downstairs

    The women in 4B are drinking, lasciviously
    As is their wont.
    Gin washing vodka washing champagne washing skin
    Bass rippling from their stereo through the walls
    My God I love you says the older one through laughter
    As if she’ll never regret it
    And she won’t
    Even when her tawny beauty’s gone

    And upstairs the English teacher
    Who does not yet know that she has cancer
    Is breathing in the smell
    Of a man who thinks she’s funny
    Who will marry her in a dance hall
    And who, on the morning the Towers fall, will weep
    Not for them but for her, sitting beside him in frozen traffic
    When she should be getting chemo
    Waiting, dying slowing on a bridge

    Above their roof, the yellow moon looks small
    Outshone by the city’s globe of light
    And the traffic won’t stop coming
    Incessant current pulsing red and white

    Kimberly Gladman Jackson

  102. Mr. Walker says:

    What is a diamond
    at night?

    What of this barrier?
    Will anyone see us cross it?

    How beautiful
    the sound of the water falling

    How wonderful
    the feel of the swings

    suspended in air
    filled with love and laughter

    I’ll give her the ring
    in the morning

  103. creilley says:

    OF LULLS AND BYES

    My child was weary and so was I
    We had played and sung the day through.
    So when she ask for a lullaby
    I did what any poet would do.

    I sang of ice cream floats and summer rain,
    Of butter-cups and daddy’s kiss,
    Spun songs that I could never explain,
    Some would hit, and some would miss.

    I murmured songs of playground fun,
    Of dressing up in wild costumes.
    We dreamed of spaceship rides to the sun,
    And riding through skies on witches brooms.

    I sang of heroes and dragons in times gone past
    Of second chances and seven tries
    Songs of times both slow and fast
    And whispers of both lulls and byes.

    I spun stories until I had no more,
    Hoping that our time I could keep,
    I only ended when a heard a soft snore
    Telling me that my babe was asleep.

  104. RE-ARRANGED

    My night prowls in on little cat feet
    and Sandburg’s rest is not disturbed
    by my blatant larceny.
    The words, it seems, were all used up
    centuries, millennia ago.
    We throw them up like puzzle bits
    to form some new picture
    of unlikely juxtoposition,
    shifting ’til it fits.

  105. Mark Conroy says:

    “Night Chase”

    It’s always much better to be asleep.
    Once you wake up you have to stay
    Your eyes pop open in the dark
    Everything’s still there
    And worse than before—you’re sure
    Five or six sentences race around the track that
    You had managed to forget
    At three in the morning they’re still in there
    And picked up more speed
    There’s no way to break in the middle
    And think them through
    Nothing can be made any better in bed and awake.
    Turn yourself over
    Stretch out
    Let a leg dangle over the side
    Fluff up your pillow and hug it harder
    Bury your face until it’s too hard to hide
    Now it’s five You see on the clock Looking back at you
    Then it’s six A new dawn breaks On the other side of me
    There’s you Now it’s seven Time to face the day
    I put on a smile When she opens her eyes
    Hi Honey Time to get up Give you a kiss
    That chases them all out of our heads.

    Mark Conroy

  106. Jaywig says:

    Day 6 a night poem
    for Dylan Thomas

    Some people do not
    rage at the dying of the light.
    They ignore it
    light the lamps of optimism
    prove sovereignty with torches
    draw curtains
    before night, literally, falls.

    Others welcome darkness
    walk into it, familiar territory,
    breathe altered air, deeply,
    sing with crickets,
    hunt with the owl,
    join with the dingo
    in a good old-fashioned howl.

  107. drwasy says:

    In the Night

    My husband’s breaths swell the dark,
    kindling worries of what to bring:
    biscuits with ham, fried chicken,
    green beans with frizzled onions.
    Lying beside him, I imagine you
    swallowed in an infinite expanse
    of cool white, your pulse a ticking reminder
    to rise, salvage vestiges: the half-full mug
    of coffee, the shirt smelling of his cologne,
    the crumpled towel still-damp.

    With more air left uninhaled,
    your house must feel larger now.

    Across our yards your bedroom light
    shines a single piercing oblong.
    I want to walk the frost-bitten blades
    spanning us and gather you, piece you together,
    tell you all will be right, but when his heart
    shattered in airless spasm, yours must have, too.

    This is what I want to do.

    But no crimson smudges the sky;
    Instead, I creep down my stairs and write
    this offering: for you, for your son, for me,
    as if my words matter a goddamn.

  108. viv says:

    Night-time Bliss

    I am safely tucked up under my fluffy duvet and home-made quilt,
    my fragile spine cushioned by a mound of pillows, Kindle at the ready.
    The scent of violas wafts from the tub on my windowsill
    as I reach out to take my mug of hot chocolate from the table.

  109. GarrinJost says:

    The sun pours out a novel of clouds,
    the great morning song-
    a question grows.

    The sappers came first.
    Dark-furred up ladder ribs- wet, holy bead.
    A call came out.
    The echo died in rootless silence.
    The dew hunted the grass unto dawn.

    The valley exhaled and touched everything.
    The eyes got nothing and asked and asked.

    Great darkness- mother’s womb.
    There too with the sun,
    a story was born.
    Endless union- breaths that stirred the purest night.

    Somewhere there the day was conceived-
    the dance was consummation.
    The question was perfect and called out
    into the only night:

    Will it end?

    The tether of always is loosed.

    The morning inhales-
    and we forget.

  110. Margie Fuston says:

    Night Keeper

    You’ve swallowed the night.
    I can see the rings of Saturn
    looped in your eyes,
    Orion’s hand pulling
    the bow of your lips,
    the balance of Libra
    dotted on your cheeks,
    the darkness sleeping
    in the strands of your hair.

    I cannot see it, but somewhere
    deep in the space of your chest
    sits a black hole.

  111. briehuling says:

    April 6, 2014 (midnight, westcoast time)

    Day 6

    Sincerely Yours,

    This is the letter you shouldn’t open
    the one I am writing for you never to read.

    In case you didn’t know, the moment night falls
    and the street lights illuminate– my wits fade away altogether.
    I light up a cigarette and inhale you into the deepest
    chamber of my heart where the love is so huge it
    glitters like the diamonds people die digging.
    I don’t want to smoke but I have to, I am addicted—you
    full, heavy, wild and gaping in the center of my freckled chest.
    From here I go to the closet and grab for the intimate bottle. My hand
    wrapped around its neck, gentle, like always. By the time
    the bourbon finally settles and my body starts to tremble
    like a bass drum apologizing, I take off those panties that make you insane
    veiling everything but our own absurd creation.

    Can I sign this letter with a sincerely? Sincerely I want to be immune to you,
    to develop antibodies in my human composition to keep you at bay,
    Love always, I don’t want to smoke, can the night just stay away from me
    long enough to forget all of this? Or maybe can you teach me
    how to glow in the dark, to smoke and not inhale?

    By Brie Huling

  112. As Night Comes to Play

    Words slip for my pen like a whore stepping out of her corset
    The blank page an eager lover naked and inviting
    daunting
    naughty
    prolific
    echoes
    to soar
    Vowels drop and consonants droop like water from the ever-dripping kitchen faucet
    Daaaamn u
    Damnn meee
    Ddamn the whole lot of uss
    Yes, you too, you their shrunk down in the corner covered in cobwebs, claiming anonymity
    With those long legs and bundled breasts, shrinking violet is not your lot in life
    More like chorus girl
    Lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree
    a
    e
    i
    o
    u
    b g r x and z too
    Voluptuous vowels and constant consonants
    Keeping me company as the minutes on the grandfather clock tick, tock, tick, tock
    And I long to write something, anything of “substance”
    Knowing that my words are my children, running scattered here and there
    Finally coming home to rest, hot chocolate with marshmallows from a hearty mug
    And laying tossled hair on cool pillows
    Waiting for the Fairy Princess in our dreams to rescue us
    From the words that chase us through the dark forest
    The words we claim before we embrace our happily ever after.

  113. tbell says:

    Enough for One Day

    Exhaustion runs deep.
    Even my bones request a rest stop.
    Eyelids hurt from too much thinking.
    Ears ringing. Don’t answer.

    There is nothing left to say.
    Feel. Do. Accomplish.

    Enough. For. One. Day.

    It is time for compassion.
    Quieting. No further input.
    Self-soothing caress of kindness.
    Gentling into the night.

    The story needs sleep.
    Only then can it dream.

    Make. The. Stars. Align.

    Copyright © TD Bell
    All Rights Reserved

  114. NIGHT ALL DAY

    I am so tired. I
    find I’m mired. I
    take a nap. I
    run no laps, I
    stay up late, I
    drag the day. I
    feel some pain. I
    sleep again.

  115. Shell says:

    Until Tomorrow

    Pick up the pieces,

    it’s a brand new start.

    The beauty at days end,

    begin anew though fallen aside quiet like.

    When the bell tolls,

    ends all lost laiden woes one crys.

    Silent in pillows,

    for grace comes with the start of the new.

    Utmost longing with blackened skies,

    foremost not forever.

    Night ends upon the morning,

    a simple introduction to peace.

    • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Love your lines,” Utmost longing with blackened skies” and Night ends upon the morning, a simple introduction to peace.” Really a beautiful feel to your poem.

  116. FaerieTalePoet says:

    Sunrise Lullaby

    You toss, turn, scratch, pace.
    I try music, white noise, plying you with chamomile tea.
    Nothing works.
    I try to keep my eyes propped open with imaginary matchsticks.
    It is usually sunrise that serves as our lullaby.

    It’s not that you’re afraid of the dark.
    No, that’s not it.
    There’s just something comforting about the sun.
    She peeks her head in like mother used to.
    Sunbeams reach toward her children’s even breathing.
    And we dream, dreams the night couldn’t hold.

    Dana A. Campbell

  117. cam45237 says:

    Sleep’s a thief in the night,
    He slips up behind me,
    Passes a dark-gloved hand over my eyes, holds a dark- gloved hand over my mouth,
    Smothers my protests, stifles my yawns.

    Silver instants scatter like a broken chain.

    Time is an unguarded gem in a box on my dresser,
    A string of hours and minutes flung carelessly across the polished wood that slips
    Into the soft cloth of Sleep’s pocket.

    He replaces my diamonds with dreams
    Of paste and shadows.

    Golden moments tumble from my fingers.

    A wealth of years lies stolen
    In that bottomless bag of star-stitched canvas.
    Sleep leaves me penniless,
    And restless still.

  118. Ciel_ says:

    INSOMNIA

    My bones are tired
    but there is no rest
    inside my head.
    Thoughts race and chase
    away the sleep.
    Ideas burst
    and bleed
    into wild tapestry.

    Voices whisper
    Laugh
    Cry
    Sing
    and refine the
    fine threads
    of the tapestry
    on
    and on
    and again
    and once more
    until the story is told.

    By Ciel Haven

  119. elliewrites says:

    Ebony shadows
    Scuttle on a bobbing hull;
    A summer night’s dream.

    by Emme Zann

  120. Gone is the night

    I turned my back on the night.
    It was nothin’ but trouble
    anyways – nothin’ but shadows
    and dark alleyways. 
    It was just another round
    that got in the way of those 
    to-do’s of the day -
    those “skills to pay the bills”
    the man would say. So
    I turned my back on the night.
    I had nothin’ to lose.
    Except for those dreams…
    You know. The ones 
    suspended over us like starlight.
    Oh – how I miss the night!

  121. Ciel_ says:

    Reverie

    Husband is fast asleep
    and snoring,
    Babies are tucked in tight
    and dreaming.

    Finally a moment
    alone
    and it’s quiet,
    except for the clack of my keyboard
    and the clickety click
    of the mouse
    and the slurrrp
    of spoonfuls of ice cream.

    By Ciel Haven

  122. lionmother says:

    Night is My Place

    The night is my place
    quiet so you can hear the
    freezer churning as it works
    making ice cubes
    Night is a blank canvas where words
    swirl and find their way to
    the screen as time ticks
    and life occurs outside my windows
    as I savor the emptiness
    of no interruptions and peace

    Night is my place for me
    I dance in the void and
    savor the simple essence
    of myself while others sleep
    my wayward mind weaves
    thoughts into verses and prose

    • Janet Rice Carnahan says:

      Beautiful poem . . . I so love, “I dance in the void and savor the simple essence of myself while other sleep.” Perfect description of a woman making time for herself. Very nice!

  123. matthew says:

    Tell The Night
    I am tired but ambitious
    That I am on the clock
    Off my rocker
    In this lit up dungeon
    Where I am doomed to produce

    Tell the boss I am dragging ass
    Tell the time keep to “move it buddy!”
    Tell the night that it is Monday and it is sickening
    Tell me I can carry on drunkenly
    And crash in the morning
    When everyone else is getting going
    Tell the night it is production lighting it up
    A new human thing the distances itself
    From the night

  124. My bones are made of stronger stuff than steel
    but they still ache with the chill of a cloudless,
    enveloping darkness that has made its way
    from a land where my nightmares are perfect
    reality, a normality where my sanity screams
    abnormality, all the while the midnight has
    crept into my heart in a desperate attempt
    to explode it from the inside, revealing the
    sapling of hope whose seed was buried there
    the day I was born because nothing is more
    powerful than hope in the hands of the willing,
    or greater than love in the hands of the selfless.

    -S. Monahan
    All Rights Reserved

  125. Erica says:

    The air doesn’t hold her like it used to.
    It’s afraid she’s become too malleable.

    The Sun rises above her as a plea to be noticed, to be bathed in. She scowls at it instead sinking deeper into herself because what’s the point of living if every second can’t be documented.

    The sound of her heart beat is less rhythmic and more like the sound of air escaping from a just cracked can of Heineken at 4AM. Her every breath flowing like spirits unconcerned about an afterlife.

    The darkness sets between a howling moon and sparkling street lights and kisses the back of her hand the way gentlemen do. What’s a sip or twenty if it stops the hurt?

    The air doesn’t hold her like it used to.
    It can’t even recognize her anymore.

    “Hope P.M.” -Erica Jeudy

  126. LiveOakLea says:

    Of all the nights
    I’ve known in my life -
    a ceiling of galaxies spinning above mountain pines,
    a strategically placed veil upon a lamp shade to cast the perfect golden glow,
    a slow talking, fast moving cowboy under a Galveston moon -
    The ones that hold my heart
    Were spent with you.

  127. Scott Jacobson says:

    THE RIGHT PARTY

    The never never brides with blue hair
    dance and kiss and fall into the scaffolds
    of their glittering platform shoes
    and rainbow fairy tale wings.
    The guys with the mohawks start a hand
    hold revolution as they try to remove
    the exquisite layers of clothing
    resting on their hidden taboos.
    A search engine of lips repeat
    the chorus to the song sung
    by a certified voodoo hypnotist.
    Lasting love does a table dance
    as my mistress forces my ragdoll
    to kiss and caress her neck.
    Then a girl in a white slip touches
    my hand to tell me I don’t belong here.

    —-
    Such an off day posted it in day 5. Sigh.

  128. carolecole66 says:

    Beautiful Lady

    Only at night can I see the spirit of my aunt
    who strolls the hallways of my house, sometimes
    trying to creep past me, visible hint of shadow. But
    I see her; I have always known she walked these rooms.
    How did she find me here, 830 miles from where
    she lived and died, why leave the fertile fields
    of wheat and corn, soy beans in deep green, what
    drew her to the heat and sand and salt of this
    odd place I chose to live, far from the family home?
    Perhaps my spirit seeks her, longing for
    the old farmhouse, the barn, the cows, the creek
    that marked my childhood. At night I fight
    to stay awake. That’s when the dreams come crushing me.
    The old Ford tractor rusts in my driveway, the hay mow
    sheds its chaff on all my floors. I sneak out at night
    and pace the asphalt streets, feeling the plowed fields
    beneath my feet, hearing her call the hens to bed.

    Carole

  129. Domino says:

    Waiting for Dark

    It starts with an oddity in my vision,
    a blank space where something should be
    and I wonder, at first, if it is what I think it is.
    When the sparkling and flashing begins,
    ragged zs and karets and less-than symbols,
    all lined up in a flashing semi-circle,
    violent against the rest of the world
    and pulsing in time with my heartbeat,
    well, then I know.

    Soon, the light sensitivity begins.
    The nausea. Hopefully, I haven’t eaten yet,
    but woe betide me if I have.

    I take the medicine as soon as I know for sure.
    Sometimes, the pill can stop it from hurting as much.
    Sometimes, the only thing to do is flee for home.
    Home, and a dark room, and a deep and quiet pillow
    where I can wait for it to end.

    Time takes on another meaning those days.
    I always wonder why the good things fly by so quickly
    and under migraine, time lengthens like taffy,
    bending, stretching, folding and multiplying.

    The first real relief is when the sun goes down,
    bringing real dark, and with any luck, sleep.
    Lovely, velvet sleep.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  130. sbpoet says:

    Moonless night. A shroud,
    a speckled enclosure. Opening
    to that other place. That place
    where walls don’t stay put,
    all roads lead elsewhere, or
    elsewhen. All your abandoned
    selves appear and disappear
    like wraiths, like ghosts.

    Dead parents and siblings
    walk into familiar rooms wearing
    unfamiliar faces, carrying new
    weapons. They do not know you.
    You turn to the sound of a train
    whistle, the rumble of wheels
    on tracks. A woodpecker’s hammer
    pulls you from sleep.

    You catch sight of yourself
    in a mirror, your eyes
    surrounded by color and symbols,
    tattoos whose meaning
    you can’t quite grasp. Is this
    beauty or play? Or something
    darker, sinister? You remember
    you were once a sister,
    you look down at your dark
    habit, feel its rough weight.

    It rains again. The city’s streets
    shine. Where are you going?
    Your cat is crying. You feel
    his paw on your cheek. Is he
    in this world, or the other?
    You are in the eye of the hurricane,
    music spins around you, you have never
    heard sounds like this, they carry
    you across the landscape, they
    pull the landscape with you.

    Life is a deadly game
    and you are losing.
    This night wraps itself
    around all your days.
    Every lamp is lit but still
    the darkness intrudes.
    Close the shutters, lock
    the doors, draw the drapes.
    Shadows crawl under the bed.
    Waking will not banish them.

    ~ sharon brogan
    http://www.sbpoet.com

  131. The Night – Amirae Garcia

    Something about car rides with you
    and the night. I think the night is in love
    with the idea of us. I think when the night
    sees our knees touching in the back of the car,
    I think that that’s her idea of love.
    Or maybe she thinks you’re beautiful,
    maybe she has found her reason for her moon to shine.
    Maybe now she knows why it was put into the sky.

    Come of think of it, the night we met,
    I remember thinking I have never
    seen the moon so beautiful.
    Never has it been so luminous.
    It must be for us. This beauty has to be for us.
    I think the night is in love with you.
    I can feel her protection surround me
    when you look at me in the way that you do.
    Maybe she is in love with me, too.

  132. Jay Sizemore says:

    Nigh t(he end is)

    I’m a singularity
    in this bedroom
    water spins clockwise
    into my eyes
    the ceiling fan blurs
    light fails
    to escape my mouth
    I’m turning
    inside out
    chewing my own
    power cable
    (spinal cord)
    until the breaker blows
    ghosts change the fuses
    but no one answers the phone.

  133. seingraham says:

    IN THE SCAVI AT MIDNIGHT

    You promised we could go out to the dig,
    the first clear night there was a full moon
    I was so afraid it wouldn’t happen, yet here I am
    On a night that would otherwise be tenebrous
    Luna led us with ribbons of silver kindness
    laid across volcanic fields where daily, goatherds

    travel back and forth, hundreds of goats,
    a few minders—shepherds I suppose, and their dogs
    —remarkably skilled dogs—It was like stepping back in time,
    you said, to see these animals swarm up and over the hills
    every day
    They were always careful to skirt the excavation
    though, as if they knew, it was sacred, and not their business

    At night, in this part of the world, in the shadow of the volcano,
    the silence is louder than one might think
    The ubiquitous crickets are stilled, as are the mourning doves
    But here in this place of the ancients where the archeologists,
    both credited and those hoping to become credited,
    spend their daily hours unearthing whole civilizations
    spoonful by spoonful, the night-air fairly hums with the
    whispers of the long-dead

    If I stay still enough, bring my heartbeat down to a slow, beat
    Eventually I catch snatches of what might be conversation,
    might be imagination, might be the dream-state that comes
    in with night
    I find myself thinking of the full-size skeleton of the woman
    residing in our room back at the dig-house
    I’ve privately named her “Esther”…
    not sure why really, it seems to suit her
    Seems more personal than just a number; all artifacts
    and bones are assigned a number

    Most nights after lights out, I find myself talking to Esther
    trying to find out how she ended up, in her predicament —
    Pregnant and dead, with a full-term fetus, likely in her
    late thirties which would have been beyond middle age
    during the time she lived, according to our bone expert
    All facts that add up to an extremely unlikely outcome
    And she was well-to-do, another surprising piece
    of her puzzle apparently –
    I know this, that she was wealthy, because she was found
    wearing hairpins, a necklace, and bracelets too.

    Luna splashes white over the entire excavation making
    it appear even more shroud-like than usual
    (It’s covered carefully each day at the finish, in case the
    weather changes overnight.)
    I feel as if I could lay down and sleep out here the whole
    night
    Wind one of these sheets around me and join the crowd
    There is a peace here I’ve not found anywhere else…I’m
    not only used to it, I’ve grown to love it.

  134. Autumn says:

    MY LUNA

    Each night
    I twist beneath my sheets,
    Craning my neck
    To see the darkening sky.

    And each fight
    Festering in me
    Dissipates
    At the Sight
    When I see

    La luna
    My luna
    Something to look up to

    La luna
    My luna
    Some kind of hope
    To hold on to

  135. Linda Hatton says:

    Every Night is the Same: Lasionycteris (Hairy and Nocturnal)

    Night brushes her eyelashes
    over my broken heart,
    she calls them bat kisses,
    lingering upside down, suckling
    on unsuspecting creatures
    darting in and out of my shaded dreams.

    My eyelids twitch of memories
    no dream can help me
    to escape from, so awake I stay.
    I feel your hand better than you do,
    your body numbed from daily rituals
    you’ve adopted to forget me.

  136. Sharon Ann says:

    The Quiet of Tonight

    It’s a clear night.
    The stars are out
    even with the city lights
    in the distance.
    It’s quiet on the road tonight.
    Country roads and fields and trees
    slip silently past my windows.
    Time to reflect,
    time to consider,
    time to make my plans.
    More cars, more lights as I
    approach the lights of the city.
    But still no noise.
    Flashing lights but no sirens.
    All are moving quietly tonight
    as if someone had said aloud,
    “Be still. Let the night pass in peace.”

  137. Mariejoy San Buenaventura says:

    “Night”

    A cricket complains,
    and the night asks why.
    Is it not happy with its soporific song,
    its hypnosis of the listening and the asleep?
    Its perch is firm on the tree branch,
    cool and ensconced among leaves.
    Colors are muted for it,
    to protect its delicate eyes.
    The milk of creation surrounds it
    with sweetness born before sound,
    before scent.
    Look, says the night,
    how the moon offers a shimmering drink
    in an ylang-ylang cup.

  138. the rulers of marydale drive

    at night our neighborhood is very dark.
    i drive with my brights on because
    our street is ruled by vagrant cats.

    sometimes i wake up to the sound
    of fighting. dark of morning is when
    they like to decide who will be crowned

    king and queen the next day.
    there is something about the way
    the stars shine at 3am that makes it

    the perfect time to vie for power–
    outside of our bedroom window…
    using megaphones.

  139. Clark Buffington says:

    Night

    The sun sets on the horizon and the dark drops like a curtain, a new world awakens to fill the void as the daytime world goes to its rest.

    The pleasant and soothing sounds of the nighttime forest outside our windows, the chorus of frogs and crickets that have become our lullaby.

    The owls, their voices that feel of an echo but never do, discuss matters of importance to those of the night.

    The coyotes with their yips and yowls that sound as if there are hundreds when a pair makes the racket that sends chills throughout.

    The night is outside but our window is always open as we listen from the safety and warmth of our bed.

  140. LuvingLife says:

    A Lunar Love Affair

    The moonlight walks along the path.
    Illuminating the way, I walk,
    watching the dark sky.
    Every step brings me closer to your world
    Here is where the stars will keep our secrets.

    Taisha C

  141. GirlGriot says:

    Still in the challenge. I’ve been writing the same form of poem every night, which is my personal challenge. Each year I choose a form and spend a whole month working/playing/wrestling with it. Last year my health meant that I wasn’t able to stick with it for the whole month, so this year I’m using the same form again, the Arun. An Arun is a 15-line poem with the syllable count 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x. It may be a new thing in the world, made up by me last year. “Arun” means “five” in Yoruba. Here’s tonight’s:

    First
    night, first
    together,
    sky dense, star-full –
    cool, inviting, wild.
    Warm,
    soft air
    whispering
    along my spine,
    hinting at secrets
    here,
    of you.
    Your nearness –
    scent, touch, echo, all –
    your long-fingered hands in mine.

  142. mrs.mjbauer says:

    nightfall
    absence of sun
    dozing dreaming sleeping
    period of rest and renewal
    bed time

    Mary Bauer

  143. C.R. Klein says:

    Since Kabul
    ___________

    By C.R. Klein
    ___________

    You gulp it back,
    smack the glass down, wincing,
    wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

    “Another.”

    Outside, you pull up your collar,
    hunch into your coat,
    head down.

    The crack of thunder sends you ducking,
    heart pounding,
    eyes darting like a snake’s tongue.

    You sag against the streetlight,
    drops sheeting like shrapnel
    hammering the asphalt.

    Trembling, you squint,
    turn your face to the sky.

    Rivulets run from your hair,
    your clothes heavy,
    dripping.

    -© C.R. Klein,
    All Rights Reserved.

  144. Angie5804 says:

    Night Pantoum

    Until the eyes adjust it all seems dark
    But slowly stars appear, constellations form
    Twinkling in a sky once stark
    Until the clouds roll in with the storm

    But slowly stars appear, constellations form
    First is The Great Bear, or Big Dipper
    Until the clouds roll in with the storm
    And spirits feel less chipper

    First is The Great Bear, or Big Dipper
    But soon it’s hard to see
    And spirits feel less chipper
    As winds bend low the trees

    But soon it’s hard to see
    No stars are to be found
    As winds bend low the trees
    As thunder starts to pound

    No stars are to be found
    Twinkling in a sky once stark
    As thunder starts to pound
    Until the eyes adjust it all seems dark

  145. Clark Buffington says:

    Wait for Night

    I will have to wait for the peace of night
    to write my prose and find my muse

    Chaos of two boys with their jokes and laughter
    that may descend into anger and yelling

    Insanity with 5 dogs barking at nothing and everything
    then into trash and trouble

    Annoyance at 2 cats bouncing off walls or laying on keyboards
    demanding only when inconvenient

    Distraction from television, computers, and more
    all sounding at once vying for supremacy

    I will have to wait for the peace of night
    to write my prose and find my muse

  146. AC Leming says:

    barely made it today…

    Fallen

    Night has long since fallen
    around me, my life.
    I struggle to light a fire, a candle,
    some flame to rekindle what I once saw in us.

    I think it’s too late,
    just like the last time I found myself here.
    Only that damn piece of paper
    wrapped around the ring
    I haven’t worn in four weeks
    keeps me tied to you, to us.

    But night has fallen
    and I’m looking for a steed
    I can climb astride
    and ride to my own damn rescue –
    and not look back
    no matter how loud
    the broken chains clatter
    upon the cobblestones behind me.

  147. FlowsforLove says:

    ~PRETTY MIA~

    Don’t think you’re alone while ridin’ on that dark, back road,
    Yeah, inspite of what you’ve been told.
    Midway through, on the left hand side,
    Watch out for the little old lady whose eyes stay open.. wide.
    She goes by the name of Pretti Mia.
    Don’t look at her too close.. Don’t let her see ya’.
    If you slip up, just keep ridin’ thru, flashin’ her a big grin.
    Keep your eyes glued straight ahead to the road.
    Can’t have another victim.. that ends up getting towed.

    This road is hers… everyone knows that. It always has been.
    It’s known as the main road, but has some eeriness within.
    Could tell you stories about her casualties.. people they mock.
    How when they looked at her, then instantly went into shock.
    There’s something about those big, wide eyes of hers.
    People look into them.. all becomes blurs, stirs, and wirz.
    Made a few lose control of the vehicle they were driving..
    Completely lost sight of the objective that they were striving.

    It’s the only road to get you thru to.. The Big City.
    So watch out now.. I’m tellin’ you! We down to the nitty-gritty!

    She’s not out to purposely do harm to anyone.. really!
    It’s just that she is very possessive of her road.. she is silly!
    Out on her stoop she sits, watching and waiting.
    Just chillin’, all the while she’s being mistaken,
    For a woman who can’t be shaken.
    Pretty Mia isn’t aware of the effect of her eyes.
    How it has lead to the ignorant one’s demise.

    PO-lice can’t charge her with any crime.
    It doesn’t pay to sue her.. she doesn’t have a dime.
    So we all know to just.. keep our eyes front and forward,
    Mash on that dayum gas pedal, keepin’ it floored!
    I’m passin’ this warning off to YOU.. make sure you avoid her.

    (FlowsforLove aka FlowsToYou)

  148. Alfonso Kuchinski says:

    Cavalier (a collaboration with CK)

    Unequipped warrior
    debonair, yet
    gently parted fangs
    hidden intentions
    failing armies
    life amongst ruins
    and midwinter thistles
    icy entrails
    inviting soft impressions
    calling out
    other countries
    backward books
    from an ancient time

  149. Casper

    Because I refuse to lock you in,
    the hollow click, soft bang of your door
    closing always startles me awake.
    Groggy and bleary-eyed, you come to me
    through the dark house, a half-asleep, sweet
    mumbling ghost. Your blond head glows,
    a beacon leading me to your room. Silent,
    you look for me over your shoulder only
    once or twice. Tired of this new routine,
    I tell you again: it’s still nighttime, go
    back to sleep, get some rest, have sweet dreams,
    stay in bed, I’ll see you in the morning.
    But what I really want to tell you is
    don’t ever stop opening closed doors.

    Courtney O’Banion Smith

  150. Amaria says:

    “The lure of the wolf”

    Under the light of the moon
    you call out to me softly
    Your voice penetrates my mind
    luring me with your lullaby.

    Foolishly I follow the sound
    of your song into the dark
    Like a lovelorn sailor at sea
    I’m caught up in the beat.

    With hungry eyes you stare
    into mine and I fall prey.
    I now see the beast within
    as the wolf inside you wins.

  151. DCR1986 says:

    Every Night Forever

    Over a table of soul food
    And a chilly breeze,
    The sky owns no moon tonight.
    Our hands practice constellations resembling l-o-v-e.
    Behind the taste of laughter,
    warmth tickles our hearts
    with a guiding light.
    As our eyes think of a dance,
    one hand confirms yes, saying:

    Care for me to be the skyline with you?
    Care for us to be those portraits in motion?
    Care for me to be that jazz breathing in your ear?
    Care for us to glow together
    for the rest of our lives?

    -Danielle C. Robinson

  152. tunesmiff says:

    INVITATION
    G. Smith
    ————————————————————–
    Rain thrums, drums on the metal roof;
    hums through the gutters to pour down downspouts;
    slaps and splats and splatters through branches and leaves onto the brick walk;

    Lightning silhouettes window mullions
    as thunder comes rumbling, tumbling
    from the starless, cloud-choked skies…

    Nuzzle, nestle closer, spoon-like, and warm,
    till the sun eases the darkness into the wool-wet gray
    we will reluctantly pull back blankets to face.

  153. Kit Cooley says:

    Sleepy Haiku

    When you are away
    I have my dreams to keep me
    safe throughout the night.

    ~ Kit Cooley

  154. TheFlawlessWord says:

    Song of the Wood Frogs

    In
    the thin
    slip between
    dusk and nightfall,
    the peepers emote
    their mating call, and the
    hushed water of their homestead
    pond sheds its silence like a shawl.
    In the chirping hum that fills the air,
    darkness lays bare beneath the wood frogs’ drawl.

  155. The Last Night – Proclamation to Morning

    I will fight to the age of the ill
    Never to submit
    Never to forget

    I will take the ancients of rule
    And bend them to me
    Break their own pains

    I will change my course mid-river
    Alter my effects
    Fracture my mistakes

    I will face the horrid square right
    Feed the glory of grace
    Starve the sins of forever

    I will endure my worst failings
    Rise to my stand
    Clear my vision with hope

    I will know joy in my every sun
    Pray for eternal light
    Praise and glory be

    I will triumph

    I will believe

    I will live

  156. Battle in the Night

    Battle dark and light
    Called a warrior to this fight
    Fear trembling racing heart
    Inner strength don’t depart
    When I am weak You are strong
    Vision blurred but I hear Your song
    I can’t see much You carry me
    Casting off anxiety
    A glimmer; a ray; a moment of hope
    I can almost see past the surrounding moat
    Protection to carry me through the night
    I trust You beyond my human sight

  157. jasonlmartin says:

    Haiku and some other lines

    Death and taxes, sure,
    they are pretty good bets, but
    what about the night?

    Night comes more often
    than death, which, for most, is once.

    Night comes more exact
    than taxes you can’t predict.

    I put my money
    all in on the night, each night,
    and I never lose.

  158. sharon4 says:

    Night: Questa, New Mexico
    ~Sharon Fagan McDermott

    O Rio Grande, the dead scull in your water, glint
    in your current. They ask for nothing, red sunset,
    nothing. Our car wheels spin dust, as I brake
    near the old bar.Heartache and mist, my father seems near–
    fog on the riverbeds, ebbing away.

    Parking lot circles with wild-eyed dogs.
    They wolf down the rice cakes I offer. I raise each cake
    to the scuffed sky, bless the dog, the dusk turning night.
    Amen, amen. The hummingbirds whir their small fans.

    Where I’d been was a slumber of corn; where I am,
    thunderclouds, lightning bolts.
    A waiter grins, slices strawberries over vanilla
    ice cream. Where I’d fled from:

    a life as small as a pinto bean. A new bolt
    of red lightning and dogs bolt toward a shack
    painted turquoise. I would have been happy
    with just one dog, one trug of clouds

    But the red sky that night nagged, “See more!
    Overflow!” Cowboys on barstools nursed their
    cold beers, as hummingbirds, bells of sweet water,
    rang the air clear.

  159. Writer’s Clock

    To force a poem out is not polite.
    During the daytime, don’t attempt to write.
    They’re like vampires who fear the light.
    Poems come out at night.

  160. phocus says:

    At Night

    At night when my girls sleep
    Peace starts laying its blanket over our house.

    No more fighting, no more wishes and wants,
    No more yelling, finger-pointing, and hunts,
    No more singing, laughing, dancing, and noise,
    Only silence is here, simple poise.

    Then we begin again to focus on work,
    Write, prepare, outline, and think;
    Also plan weekends, holidays, visits, and trips
    We cuddle up, talk, watch movies, and drink

    We meet as individuals and so we can revive
    Our feelings from when our love first came alive.

    ©Uta Raina, April 2014

  161. MyPoeticHeart says:

    The Knight

    He came to me in the late night air
    Wielding his shiny sword in the bright moon light
    He looked so handsome in his armor he did
    Exhausted from the battle, he gave no sign
    This swordsman stood by me
    Through good and bad times
    From the very first time that we spoke to each other
    I knew this was fate or some wonderful thing
    The magic we felt in that late, late night
    Brought us tears of joy and lots of laughter
    Both had a smile and we shared a dance.
    Two friends who became more than lovers
    Chatting for hours until the sun rose again.

  162. christinamcphee says:

    The moon rises
    as do I
    To primal senses gorging my veins
    Remembering the rabid, gnarled forest
    I once romped
    Howling as famished runts pulled my teets
    I laid bare, abandoned to their need
    Indulging the carnal feast

  163. georgiana says:

    Midnight

    The train whistle is more a blare
    Then metallic pounding, wheels on rails,
    I know it is midnight
    and I’m still awake.
    I swallow and my throat sticks together,
    All the moisture in my body evaporates,
    I’m still so hot.

    The shadow at the doorway looms,
    I pretend hard I am asleep.
    He walks into the room anyway.
    “Are you awake?”
    He strokes my hair
    and I know
    I’ve run out of luck.

  164. tunesmiff says:

    BETWEEN MORNINGS
    G. Smith
    ————————————–
    Just after sunset,
    Before the first star;
    As the streetlights come up,
    There you are, there you are.

    Headlights and taillights;
    The moon starts its climb;
    Constellations appear,
    One more time, one more time.

    Just before sunrise
    As black fades to blue;
    Our still made-up bed mocks
    Me and you, me and you.

  165. CStern says:

    9:30 p.m. on a Saturday
    * * *

    Air slowly surrendering

    warmth

    hoarded from the day’s bright harsh sunshine

    that faded a couple of hours ago

    The sky is dark

    where it’s not washed out

    by bright towering streetlights

    colorful neon signs

    twinkling strands hung from trees

    and the red-yellow-green dance of stoplights

    Light spills from crowded restaurants

    and flows after the laughter tumbling

    from open bar doors

    it dances down the streets with cell phones

    and prowls from car headlights

    searching

    searching endlessly

    for an open parking space

    So much light and activity

    people eating and drinking and talking

    filling the darkness

    But quiet spaces remain

    between the lights and conversation

    where pinpricks of light twinkle down

    on the star-dusted city
    * * *

    http://caitlinsternwrites.wordpress.com/2014/04/06/national-poetry-month-6/

  166. Insomnia

    Running water
    a treadmill
    (do these people ever sleep)
    that electric guitar again
    (though rock is all right)
    washing machines
    (electricity is cheaper after midnight)
    creaking floorboards
    fridges
    a single bird
    then, the dogs
    the elevator
    running water, again
    muffled conversations
    is that the hour already
    this night is ridiculously short
    doors banging
    car engines
    a single vacuum cleaner
    and the sounds of hatred
    right above my head.

  167. barton smock says:

    toss frogs
    into a fire
    your father made.

    find a woman
    who’s abandoned herself
    to being led
    by a stick

    let her blind mongrel
    lick your palm.

    bury a handful
    of gravel
    call it
    the moon’s
    grave.

    hide in houses
    hidden
    from road.

    make at least one friend
    whose night vision
    is a glass of milk.

    double your body
    by walking
    drunk.

    • barton smock says:

      (and, with title. as well, one will need it.)

      -how to live in the country dark-

      toss frogs
      into a fire
      your father made.

      find a woman
      who’s abandoned herself
      to being led
      by a stick

      let her blind mongrel
      lick your palm.

      bury a handful
      of gravel
      call it
      the moon’s
      grave.

      hide in houses
      hidden
      from road.

      make at least one friend
      whose night vision
      is a glass of milk.

      double your body
      by walking
      drunk.

  168. Alpha1 says:

    MIRROR IMAGE

    Living on the edge
    Somewhere between
    Day and the darkness of
    Night lives the shadow
    A faint image
    Of ourselves moving
    In and out of existence
    Leading and following
    By example
    Always close by
    Sometimes seen
    Sometimes not
    A reflection of light that
    Knows all of our
    Secrets

  169. cbwentworth says:

    When light fades,
    blue cascades
    Life flickers,
    candles melt
    Silence falls,
    sleepy town

    Souls take flight,
    starry night
    Swirls of gold,
    spark with fire
    Fireworks flare,
    muted roar

  170. We Are Brighter in The Dark
    Lydia Flores

    The night always has a way of getting you
    out of your clothes, naked and exposed.
    The moon’s milky light shyly
    kissing your collarbone, and undressing
    your vulnerable heart with the hands
    of sweet conversation. In talk
    We are echoing wolf howls
    in the symphony of cicadas,
    exchanging logic and reason
    for internal parts of ourselves. Maybe
    this why no one wants to sleep alone.
    the candle moon lighting our waxy
    hearts until we open up, because we
    need someone to burn with, to glow with.
    Because We are our own constellation.

  171. Funkomatic says:

    Both are unforgiving in their own
    Ways, winter and its attendant nights.
    Out of bed again four hours before waking
    Toilet, kitchen, fuzzy shadows at my feet
    The unison of cold bodies all seeking
    What they need. The house creeks like ankles
    And shoulders as the temperature recedes
    Like a bank account into the negatives.
    This is where fathers find their peace
    A robe, spoon, and the neapolitan .

  172. Laura Romero says:

    Nighttime, Me Time
    -Laura Romero

    As the fading rays of the sun
    Touch the sky and darkness takes over,
    The stars make their grand appearance.
    The scent of dinner still lingers heavy in the air.
    Dishes have been washed and stacked,
    Waiting to be dried and put away.
    Kisses, hugs and I love you’s
    Have all been doled out to those
    Who truly light up my life.
    A peace settles over the house.
    I crawl between cool sheets
    With a lamp to light my way
    And a warm body next to me
    Breathing steadily and reassuringly.
    Now for my favorite moment of the night,
    I crack the spine of my favorite read
    And get lost in someone else’s world,
    If only for a while.

  173. Angie K says:

    PAD 2014 – Day 6 – Night poem

    My Knight

    A “knight in shining armor”
    is who the stories say
    will ride atop a charging steed
    to chase my fears away.

    But what if the armor loses its shine,
    if it is dented on its ride,
    if Mr. Perfect slips from his mount
    as his horse falls out of stride?

    No, my Knight can leave the weight behind,
    a light coat will suffice -
    a t-shirt, jeans, and dusty chucks,
    they need not be precise.

    My Knight is just the perfect mix
    of hero, friend and love -
    this “Knight in faded denim”
    is a gift from God above.

    ~~by Angela Knight, for husband T.R., my “Knight in faded denim”

  174. toujourskari says:

    Night

    Night falls heavy as a tomb
    As she traces his aftermath
    out the door
    and down the darkened road
    She was once in his arms
    full of sunshine and bliss
    She gave her all her everything
    Her take-my-last-drop-of-blood
    He refused her gift
    Now she gives herself over to the shadows
    Sinking into the velvet folds
    of night’s thick
    grave-clothes

  175. acele says:

    4/6

    Night comes sweetly
    after this busy spring day
    raking
    hiking
    laundry
    accomplished
    Now
    into soft blankets
    I hide like seed
    waiting to germinate

  176. rachfh says:

    The Sun Rose Tonight by Rachel E. Hicks

    on the dreams I spoke
    and I felt youth coursing
    my electrified veins

    and you held my hand,
    warm and firm, and we walked
    and the sun was sinking
    and rising.

    In the bookstore near campus
    we flipped pages of dreams
    together, and laughed quietly
    and you held my hand

    until the blaring techno
    (in a bookstore?) triggered a migraine
    and I felt age hammering
    the backs of my eyelids

    and suddenly the student cashier’s
    maroon jeans were too tight—
    everything these tweenty-somethings
    were wearing was too tight—

    and you held my hand
    walking me back to the car,
    both of us wondering
    if it were too early to return home—
    were the kids even asleep yet?

    We drove around the city
    chuckling at ourselves,
    old and young, still dreaming—

    the sun paused on the horizon
    and you held my hand.

  177. peacegirlout says:

    Night flight

    By the seat of my pants
    I fly
    Toward the sun

  178. Hannah says:

    While the Getting’s Good

    Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
    from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
    and when I should be merging into highway traffic
    with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.
    This Sunday is a slate gray heron and her flight is measured
    treasured is the sight of her majestic expanse of feathers
    gripping invisible wind and wise to tell me of time-
    fleeting and fast between outstretched fingers;
    truth is held in the dramatic arch of her angular neck
    her head pulses forward slightly on each powerful push
    and then I see suddenly the swirling trio of osprey to my right
    and the awe of the undersides of six mottled wonderful wings.
    Vast visions might arrive just when one could easily miss them,
    could try to escape one’s memory – if it weren’t for the jotted note.
    Yes, this poem may possibly just as easily never have been written
    if it weren’t for the small voice begging to become unhidden;
    night could show up as it does and it has and the day becomes filed away…
    a passing memory growing dim and dimmer in the swift approach of sleep
    all of this without ever a word finding page and purpose or poise
    but tender verse won’t wait and hearts hungry for poetry must be fed,
    spirit inspired must be bled – a sacrifice of minutes given for receiving
    a brief experience is made more full – more real
    by merely acknowledging it and honoring it with our attention.
    Nature tries to burst out from behind the rush –
    from inside the bustle climb she’s just above my head
    and when I should be merging into highway traffic
    with my blinker frantic there she is and I must look.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  179. dandelionwine says:

    Minimalists

    At half past midnight
    you voice a partially
    formed thought, share
    harmless MLS photos.

    DOWNSIZE
    dominates Brazilian cherry
    shining hardwood floors
    and lofty 14 foot ceilings.

    SIMPLIFY
    stretches the sunny span
    of sky-high windows
    and one level living.

    We go to bed placing
    our patio furniture
    on Craigslist, returning
    my dad’s snowblower,
    consolidating the entire
    tool chest into one box.

    We dream fall, spring hours
    reading rather than raking,
    summer days hiking 4,000
    footers instead of traipsing
    up and down the lawn
    pushing and dragging
    the mower, winter storms
    snowshoeing, not shoveling.

    We awake to what must be
    a spiritual need, what may
    be a sickness, this – less
    is more – happiness in paring
    everything down to nearly
    nothing.

    Sara Ramsdell

  180. I wrote these letters in the dark of night

    the light of the flat screen tv
    glowing through the curtains,
    bouncing off the windows and
    confusing the dog into believing
    that someone is trying to traverse
    our yard. They form in frustration.
    They form in ordinary fashion.
    They deceive me into the idea that
    I’ll be able to sleep soundly after
    I release them. They think that someone
    will care about them after they’ve
    been birthed.
    The ground beneath is shaking,
    we built a silence worth breaking.

    But they are leaving me empty tonight.
    They will keep firing into the dark,
    blending with the cries of bats,
    the mating of crickets,
    in search of eyes.

  181. encrerouge says:

    Considering the traffic lights on Anthill City

    The restless may consider the sky too wide
    some idealists may conclude on its reach
    tonight my voice strums and reaches corners
    shoulders of trapped wealth on lilac leaves

    Pearls drip from backs when silence is undone
    showered he remains in the fearless angst
    this is how they live, after the before of today
    submerged in the tracks of fireball ants

    weeks don’t reply to the uncensored and numb
    the type has taken more than Pandora boxes
    before midnight the eyelids resist disclosure
    and the natural riches sing a storm of watches

  182. SuziBwritin says:

    NIGHT #6

    It was night
    the leaves fell
    the hour fell back
    the snow fell
    the holidays lifted spirits
    before they fell again

    And then the night dragged on
    And on and on and on and on
    until even skiers and snowboarders
    fell into complaining and moaning
    with the rest of us tenderfeet

    And the hour sprang forward
    the clouds moved away
    the light came in again
    ever so slowly

    The warmth lifted us after
    being so cold for so long in the darkness

  183. BDP says:

    This place feels as if it stood open before me,
    Because the string has broken for me.

    –From a San poem*

    Sleep

    is broken strings, none long enough to kill,
    all short enough to lead you. Footsteps on
    deep snow—no skis, no shoes—to sink where you’ll
    find buttercups and, soon, fresh lupine wands.

    But ground’s not there and vegetation’s gone,
    you start a slog through rooms of phrases, meet
    at each door sleaves of care, moon shadow songs,
    pick any metaphor, what words that sneak

    to split the trance of life, and you are pleased,
    still sinking, true, but all around you, mangoes,
    tall people slicing mangoes, wide umbrella trees
    of mangoes, wipe the juice, remember can dos,

    knit up the stringy drips. Wake then to frogs.
    In spring they freeze three times before last frost.

    –Barb Peters

    *The Poem In the Story: Music, Poetry & Narrative, by Harold Scheub, pp xv-xvii and pp 71-74.

  184. Bucky Ignatius says:

    Restless

    This house tilts toward
    the Ohio—not exactly from
    gravity, but rather the power
    of a hundred years of freight.

    While the city sleeps, barges,
    trucks and trains converge
    here, on the outskirts, to move
    the spoils, coal and chemicals

    mostly, through the veins
    of the beast. Diesels power
    through the graveyard shift.
    Steel rails creak. Air horns,

    steam-whistles moan. Soon enough
    everything leans their way.

    Bucky Ignatius

  185. bethwk says:

    Night
    a tanka by Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider
    (farmpoem.wordpress.com)

    I know this is true
    because the moon laid her head
    in that indigo,
    on that blue velvet cushion
    of sky. How she sighed for joy.

  186. break_of_day says:

    the best is the cold night in winter
    when the world sleeps dreamily for a season
    warm under blankets of cotton and wool and snow
    the air clean and crisp as an apple
    sheets soft and covers piled against the cold
    safe and hidden
    a respite from the glare of the day
    the quiet time when you may not speak
    but think
    and wonder
    and dream

  187. mshall says:

    Night Lovers

    Soft on the paws of the blackest of cats
    In creeps the night, making peace with the day
    Lovers come out, in their finest top hats
    Soft spoken words have the power to stay

    Gone is the sun, bedded down for a rest
    Gaiety springs as the city lights up
    Cover of night for the lovers is the best
    Dance till the dawn, taking time out to sup.

    Swirling and twirling, they dance with the winds
    Jiving and jumping, in sweet innocence
    Under cover of darkness, self-consciousness ends
    Night softens the edges of sharp common sense.

    Soon enough, though, fateful Aura comes
    Pulling ink from the sky, drawing curtains of rose.
    Sad lovers parts, off to their daytime homes
    Happiness lasts to the tingling of toes.

  188. Roderick Bates says:

    Seeing in the Dark

    by Roderick Bates

    At the ocean, on a bright, clear day,
    we can see about three miles to the horizon.
    At home, at night, with the lights out,
    I can’t see my dog lying in the hall,
    and I trip over her.

    But if I step outside at midnight,
    and look up, I can see Orion.
    One of the gleams in his sword
    is not a star, but the Orion Nebula;
    its light has travelled since the early years
    of the Dark Ages. It is eight quadrillion
    miles away —and easier to see
    than my yellow lab.

    If there is a lesson here —
    maybe something about how
    we need the dark in order
    to see the light, then I confess
    that it is lost on me. I am truly
    benighted.

  189. Reynard says:

    ever haunting night
    moon take flight
    among the stars
    there you are
    maybe you will stay
    throughout the day
    frightened not
    by the crowing cock
    or the sun’s bright
    and shining light

  190. Heidi says:

    THE NIGHT MARK DIED

    In the night I dream.
    Again, I dream in the night
    a dark dream
    a storm.
    In a dream at night
    I see him.

    My brother trapped.
    Savage waves
    slam his body
    cartwheeling beyond reach.
    Deep into gloomy deep
    cruel waves green
    hammer in torrents
    suck his breath and
    swallows Mark as a black cloud
    swallows the night moon.

    At daybreak
    the call arrives
    crossing borders of
    countries and states
    to the office in Oaxaca,
    a bus ride away.
    Not a dream.
    A bathtub
    of clear tap water
    swallowed Mark last night,
    as a sink full of dishes
    swallows a spoon.

    Heidi R. de Contreras

  191. Night Cage

    We once thought night was God
    Draping a cloak over the world
    As we would send a caged bird to sleep

    The cage was built with our minds
    Fine tuned by predators over generations
    To feel there was someone watching us
    To assume someone sent the storms
    Or brought the night
    And to have faith in the dawn

    Now we must escape the cage
    By using the very minds that built it
    We occasionally poke our heads out
    And notice the planet turns on its own
    Storms can be predicted with barometers
    And night is just looking away from the sun
    Out to the stars

  192. Kevin D Young says:

    HER ARMADA

    Armada Benoli takes the six a.m.
    sextant reading, sighting Sirius
    on its last flare before the sun obscures
    the horizon. Long night. Long voyage. Long

    odds he’ll ever see he wife, her skin
    spread thin under his hand, her glowing
    crescent sunrise melting against
    his ribs, the water on her lips

    salty from the long night, the long voyage
    from two to one. All night he wrestled
    the stars into their places, bending them
    to tell him where, where on this liquid

    plane his ship flies above the fish.
    My God, he breathes, the sea
    is not my home. All night the stars
    tell him – there – she binds one

    sea-infused prayer to another.
    The sun is a star, but he puts away
    the sextant, with as gentle a caress
    as crescent ironmongery deserves,

    the link of all aboard to land.
    He will wait until the day
    is high before he calls again.

  193. julie e. says:

    MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER.

    The other night
    a cat came by
    and be assured
    I nev-rarely lie
    of grayish smoke
    to wend her way
    ’round feet unsure
    whom to obey.

    Soft she walked
    past waking me
    when stumbling on
    my way to pee
    her vapor self
    confounded sight–
    a ghost feline
    came by that night!

  194. amaranthe says:

    Maybe they are just shadows someone once said

    Sea monsters slither down the streets at night.
    An impossible feat in the insipid
    daylight, I know. As I sip wine
    in dark corners I hear them stretching
    their fins and carousing in inky alleys.
    Hearing their hunger being appeased I
    slink back inside to artificial solar comfort.

  195. Anvanya says:

    Night Blooming Cereus

    Upon graduation from high school I received
    the Bank of America Fine Arts Award.
    For what? being an arts major – wait:
    could there be such a thing? What had I done?

    I sang in mixed chorus; musical plays; weddings and funerals
    On stm’s recommendation. I took art class for three years,
    Where I was a competent renderer of scenes on the page – but the truth is
    That I had learned more art from my eighth grade teacher.

    On memorable day the nun revealed her own paintings -
    There was her pride and joy, the night-blooming cereus:
    Waxy white petals against a stark night sky.
    Greenish leaves tumbled toward the edge of the canvas.
    My classmates were astounded. I was not.
    “Arizona Highways” was a staple in my home.
    Having seen many photographs of the cereus,
    I intuited that speaking up would be stealing
    Sister’s fire.

    In college, chorus claimed my spare time.
    Performances came and went. Junior Prom
    Arrived and that night at the Palladium, my roomie
    Wanted me to sing “More” for her and her fiancée.
    While her beau requested the song,
    I made my way to the band stand
    Wearing a borrowed and beaded satin dress –
    I crooned the lyrics – unrehearsed.
    The spotlight was on me as I glowed
    With the rhythm of the song.

  196. pmwanken says:

    IN THE DARK OF NIGHT
    (a shadorma)

    Distractions
    during daylight hours
    fill my mind.
    As night falls,
    so do the tears, spilling down
    cheeks once kissed by you.

  197. beale.alexis says:

    Empty skies give the impression
    of fulfillment with spectacular stars
    circling around the great white moon.

    Meanwhile, the white curtains are drawn,
    pulling the darkness in and covering
    the white walls with their nothingness.

    I stare and stare, waiting
    for a poem to drip from my lips
    onto the white page. All I taste is disappointment.

    • grcran says:

      Wakingsleepingsnoring
      By gpr crane

      Some spouses gripe about spouses snoring.
      However, I always liked it, slept easier when she was snoring because then
      I knew she was sleeping deeply and well.
      I could hear it.
      She’d give off such a snore at times, she’d wake her ownself.
      Amusing, that. And, if for some reason I was awake at the time,
      I could laugh at it because she wasn’t awake enough to know.
      Now that she’s gone, I can’t sleep.
      I’d give a whole night’s rest just to hear her snore, one more time.

  198. Amaria says:

    When the sun goes down
    I put on my nightgown
    waiting for you to appear
    at my open windowsill

    The first night you came
    you softly whispered me name
    making me open my eyes
    to see you floating outside

    You slipped into the room
    under the light was the moon
    as you stared into my eyes
    I was instantly hypnotized

    I did not know you
    but those eyes – so blue
    and your face was alluring
    and my body – so yearning

    Your voice touched my skin
    and your fangs sunk in,
    I lost all of my reason
    and let you in easily.

    Since the night you fed
    and entered into my head
    I have become your prize
    that you drain until sunrise.

  199. Elizabeth Koch says:

    Night Flying

    shooting through the black
    blue flashes on each tip
    coasting on a current
    a control tower blip

    thousands in the sky at once
    millions down below
    everyone is moving fast
    I’d like to take it slow

    here I can pause to listen
    take note what’s in my mind
    there’s nowhere else to be
    no need to feel behind

    in someone else’s hands
    flying through the night
    life is more clear from here
    even at this height

  200. RAW says:

    SLEEPTALKING TO A SAINT

    They kissed me on The Tender Spot
    Right on the neck
    It woke me up
    ‘It itches’ I said
    I whined, writhed with pain
    ‘Don’t scratch it’ they said
    I awoke again
    They put lotion on all of my spots
    A helpless leper in the night
    In and out of consciousness, ever conscious of their presence, alert, awake, helpful
    Putting me first, my prayers of pain
    As if washing my feet, the prophet

  201. Untitled Girl

    She takes five photos
    of the evening sky – the star-trails;
    then considers her habit of putting pain to ink
    while her smiles go to the wind.

    Maybe someday she’ll get a tattoo
    to disguise the scars
    that showcase her lack of judgement.

    For now though,
    she takes five photos
    lets the paper bruise for her
    and the nighttime wind is all the richer.

  202. poetrycurator says:

    Here is my Night Haiku for day 6

    Sequel

    Winter the dolphin
    Splashing on the silver screen
    Makes a teen date night

    By Denise Fletcher Copyright © 2014

  203. Liliuokalani says:

    “Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my / Desert and my dear relief / Come: there shall be such islanding from grief, / And small communion with the master shore.”
    ~Gwendolyn Brooks

    My Prayer Is the Soil and the Silence

    The gentleman captures jewelwings and sunsets
    with a rigor Thoreau would admire.
    Perhaps sunset reminds him of home –
    his mother tidying shoes at the backdoor mat,
    festooning the alley with laundry.
    In a furrow, I unfold litter clumps and a decaying bluebird,
    her feathers like the sky, but just tips -
    the rest – hunkered and dusty sepia tones
    like Dorothy’s Kansas,
    her bones scribbling below my spade.
    A stray dog is sniffing
    among trampled patches of switchgrass,
    aspen leaves fringed in frost pearls,
    petite snow archipelagos and rotting shrews –
    wet newspapers left behind
    for beetles and centipedes to decipher.
    A heron lands in the estuary’s bulrush.
    Nuthatches chatter among the oak branches.
    Male robins serenade uncertainty,
    warbling peaches and roses into streams.
    There are no crows, no jays, no other sentinels
    but tire tracks frozen in the footpath
    and a flattened spot on the peninsula
    where the rescue team nested yesterday –
    Some say there is a big, hungry cat that lives under the lake.

  204. SestinaNia says:

    Thinking Through Birmingham

    With gas take full and heart
    half empty, I merge
    onto Interstate 65.
    To my left, the sun flees,
    blazing a trial I can not follow,
    westward.

    My road is always north,
    and as I ease into Birmingham,
    under the cover of night,
    I recall promises strewn
    like petals that released
    only the sharp tang of regret
    when crushed.
    The darkness pours strength
    into my weary bones,
    hiding the fractures, now mended,
    stronger in their reconstruction.

    The moon beseeches me,
    veiled behind gossamer clouds,
    to consider what light
    hides within,
    and bids me on
    beyond Birmingham.

    – Sara Doyle

  205. msmacs3m says:

    PAD Day 6

    Night
    By Sandy McCulloch

    Darkness the sixth hour-
    “It is finished,” He cried.
    The promise of dawn.

  206. flood says:

    Every Shade Ever

    At a certain distance from glass,
    fluorescent light strikes the flesh

    and it oscillates between pallors.
    Every shade ever of green and blue

    dance on the head of a pin like
    drunken angels, like a beautiful

    battalion of brushstrokes, like
    emergency rooms everywhere
    should close their sliding doors.

  207. Mark Windham says:

    Of the Night

    The skies are clearest
    on the coldest
    of nights,

    the stars the brightest
    when the moon
    is absent,

    and troubled dreams
    are not always forgotten
    in the morning light.

  208. Beewrite says:

    In the Dark
    By Michelle Starks Murrish

    Thirty and afraid of the dark
    Some call it pathetic
    I say self-preservation

    For when one has seen firsthand
    The horrors of the night
    A fear of the dark is good sense

    I’ve heard the howls to the moon
    A celebration of the inner demons
    From those who’ve lost the fight

    I’ve seen the eyes in the shadows
    Watching for those who wander
    Waiting to feast on the forgotten

    I’ve felt the ice-cold hand of death himself
    Cup my cheek, but like an unfulfilled lover
    Turn and leave for someone else

    Yet of all the terrors the night can bring
    The worst by far will always be
    The monsters in my own mind

  209. cholder says:

    Darkness
    -a linked cinqku

    Day dawns
    Breaks bread with
    The goddess Nox
    Glorifies the Sun King
    With gold

    Sun clinks
    In loose slot
    Light surrenders
    Foiled by pale eclipse
    Of dusk

    Darkness
    Slips into
    crevices I
    Am afraid to explore
    Alone

  210. Me and Mr. Muse

    Nighty-night, Muse;
    I’ll see you in the morn.
    Goodness, not another poem!
    Hey, tell it to me when we meet for coffee.
    This never works out, does it?
    Yeah, I’ll get the light.

    Now what was that again?
    Is that free verse?
    Got it.
    How about a little shut-eye this time?
    Thinking we need to talk about you and me.

  211. writeoncindi says:

    Night Fear

    Damn
    it’s here again, cutting me, slicing me
    taking me apart piece by piece

    why does it come each night
    making me withdraw into parts of myself that I don’t have
    why does it whirl in front of me
    daring me to grasp and control
    knowing I can’t, won’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t
    why does it tease me with its lips of green that threaten to expose
    why does it instill fear in what was once a fearless soul

    why

    Damn

  212. DanielAri says:

    FIRST TIME IN WONDERLAND

    kind of companionship I’d grown used to, attraction
    hinged on the obscure, angular lighting of night time
    and neon beer signs. By that light, the bottle-blond,
    buxom knockout by the dartboard looked like the grail
    worth risking everything to win, even if I went home
    alone again. I gulped a bracing shot and then went
    to tell her, “You’re a knockout. What’s your name?”
    Kablam! She had a three-way combo of eyes, blush
    and smirk. “Could you repeat that?” I asked, willing
    the tinnitus to subside, “Alice, but I prefer company
    that’s not drinking.” “It’s a bar,” I said. “I’m just here
    with friends.” “I won’t touch another drop, and I’ll be
    straight in an hour. Want to talk ‘til then?” Pow! Again
    with the glorious smirk, a fitting quid pro quo to my
    capricious resolve. In the smoky dim, I watched her
    loosen the other corner of her mouth. The archetype
    of the lover lifted out of her recent break-up story.
    She’d transcend, I could see, even me, given the
    chance. She spoke like a priestess solving the big
    mystery on the fly during her sermon. So I chanced
    no words except those that allowed the miracle of
    morning to find us waking together in her bed, Alice
    even more kapow in the daylight, me with a towering
    and sober strength, feeling like the master’s favorite
    jackass.

    —FangO

  213. Night glow

    In the faint glow of the light
    from the kitchen, I follow
    the curve of your legs while
    you are twisted in slumber
    on my pillow riddled sofa.
    Clutching the pink one, your
    mouth is turned up slightly
    and I wonder if you’re dreaming
    about last summer by your pool,
    your hand sliding up my smooth
    leg, water beads lingering on
    my thigh as it wrapped around
    my hand. Your smile was a remedy.
    Our glasses filled with sun tea,
    our feet mingling. I ease myself
    next to you, careful not to startle
    and wrap my arms around your waist,
    rest my head on your chest, breathe
    in your scent and drift off.

  214. dianemdavis says:

    New England Sleep Over (1844)
    (from Leaving for Lowell: a mill girl story)

    If you stare into the candle
    without blinking, Evie says,
    you’ll see your future husband.

    I look, but all I can see
    is the blue tipped fire
    dancing about like a juggler
    on fair day. Which is fine
    with me.
    I’ll either marry someone
    who loves to dance,
    or no one at all.

    Don’t say that, Evie reprimands.
    Of course you’ll marry. What else
    would you do? Now look again.
    I’m sure you’ll find someone new.

    I focus on the flame.

    Oh yes, I say, fingers crossed
    behind my back.
    I see him clearly now…
    Tall, handsome, and with a lock of black hair
    that falls across his forehead
    like the mane of a wild horse in springtime.

    There, I told you, Evie says.
    Now we can both get married
    and remain
    best of friends
    forever.

  215. susanjer says:

    Black Suitcase

    Caught forever in some yolk sac of night,
    the dead circle the rutted track of night.

    They carry suitcases covered with labels
    and strapped for trips on the roof rack of night.

    Their songs are contrapuntal, heavy on bass,
    tunes composed in the shuttered shack of night.

    Sometimes I wake at five a.m. The time
    my father left for work. The slack of night.

    Mexicans party with the dead. Drink. Eat.
    Then send them off on the horseback of night.

    I don’t want to pack the suitcase of death.
    Not yet. I still write from the black of night.

  216. cholder says:

    A cinkqu poem

    Darkness
    Slips into
    crevices I
    Am afraid to explore
    Alone

    Chi Holder

  217. Andrea says:

    Flowers

    Are flowers scared at night
    when the sun packs up its daylight

    and dirt turned cold, a midnight
    strangler, holds to roots too tight

    when nocturnal life rises up
    and preys on life still under

    does a flower cower to the moon
    or take faith in its reflection

  218. cholder says:

    A cinkqu poem:

    Sun clinks
    In loose slot
    Light surrenders
    Foiled by pale eclipse
    Of dusk

  219. jclenhardt says:

    Am Found

    We forgot,
    did we not?
    where romance
    lies with love,
    to steal away,
    and in the night,
    with our lamps
    lit to find,
    where all
    such paths,
    well worn
    and tread,
    do lead
    the common mind,
    to forget oneself
    and there
    beheld,
    in another’s lamp,
    am found.

  220. Lindy™ says:

    Stardust

    Black is called the night
    with wings of silver moonlight.
    Dark shadows ride long
    kicking up our dust of days
    into mistifying dreams.

  221. iris dunkle says:

    Sea Monkeys Have an Expiration Date

    Last night, slice of moon startled the window.
    Mercy of cool air, cleaved in two, and darkness
    pressing from behind like a false promise.
    These days we don’t sleep well. Coyotes braid their
    staccato screams together into air.
    You’d think the air would saturate: reach a
    point when no more sounds could compound into
    its dark ear. But, lying here, half asleep,
    the sounds triffle, layer up, a swarm of crickets
    in its glass belly, then the moans of far off cars,
    the wrinkle of a tarp left out to gather wind,
    the clink of a metal clasp against a metal pole,
    and then the coyotes, so many it seems,
    the hills been overrun. We have become
    tenants to their nightly follies. A mere
    audience of bodies, laid out on the cool sheets
    waiting for breath of air; waiting for the shock
    of the moon to remind of our place in this world.

  222. The Monsters of the Night
    by Ashley Marie Egan

    The young fear it,
    For the wrong reasons,
    Adults would never admit,
    The dangers of the seasons.

    In the night lives,
    Monsters close to home,
    They walk with knives,
    Around your block they’ll roam.

    They don’t look like ghouls,
    In fact, they can be sweet,
    But you best follow the rules,
    Or you’ll become their next treat.

  223. inkysolace says:

    “shooting stars”

    for the stars that crush themselves into
    the black dirt of night

    you are the final stop
    on the road to death
    and you’ll have company
    before your slivers melt on
    the corner of the moon’s tongue

    I will sleep and pour milk into the crux
    of our arms
    it will swallow the air that takes away
    your breath

    sprout, before the sky starts to bloom
    with the pastels
    of ripened fruit
    sprout, before caramel clouds weigh down
    the petals you’ve never shown

    you do not have long to wait
    before we become company

  224. annabyrne77@gmail.com says:

    Night falls –

    it does not rise
    nor awaken, soar or climb

    but, plunging to inky knees,
    grasps your hem to
    slacken its drop

    pulling taunt its darkened cloak
    taking you with it

    – to rest

    Anna Byrne

  225. JWLaviguer says:

    The Night People

    The Night People are coming
    they have no souls
    they have no eyes
    they will be here
    whether you are ready
    or you are not.

    The Night People came last year
    but nobody remembers
    they make you forget
    after
    but during
    you sense everything
    because the Night People
    are in my brain
    and I can’t get rid of them.

    JW Laviguer

  226. rhiain30 says:

    I fear neither light nor darkness
    Though evening may strike most
    As the time when fear blooms
    It it actually the time when
    Light shines best

  227. Gwyvian says:

    Night Queene

    Betrayal is a sweet hollow in your eyes,
    a place where I just fit—
    I watched you in your silent agony,
    and I decided to ensnare you once more;
    you look at me with callous eyes, but I know
    that deep within, your cold heart is coated in tears,
    and bursting with memories that sting;
    but I will forgive you the insolence of your walls
    and simply erode them stone by stone…
    I will infuse you and confuse you with murmurs,
    wrap my fingers into your silky hair, and—
    just when you would succumb and banish loneliness,
    I will step back to let you chase along…
    it is what you want, I know, your voice
    is honest when you are alone, cracked with emotions
    that you cannot speak to another – or to no one at all;
    I have the map to your mind and a key to your heart,
    for I have the power to seduce you with a rustle,
    with a mere hint of a kiss on my parting lips—
    I am moonlight, the stars sprinkled onto the empty sky…
    I am the night that gives you dreams and promises,
    the truth behind your petty illusions—
    perhaps your betrayal is a raw wound,
    but your heart of hearts was ever mine:
    for I am the night to which you shall wed and
    dream of in waking slumber when the sun shall rise…

    April 6, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  228. beachanny says:

    SMASHED

    SMASHED

    turned round into
    the alley taking
    the short way back
    and nearly tripped
    on a homeless guy
    sleeping by a trash bin

    and next to him
    a broken skull
    stopped me
    he stirred slightly
    casting a cloudy
    eye my way

    feeling an urge to
    retch or run
    my curiosity held
    me in place

    the side of
    her face
    covered in filth
    the sleeve of
    her kimono
    old heavy silk
    the beauty of
    her body was
    arresting

    I turned her over
    but the old guy reached
    out before I could
    touch her perfect
    hands

    –leave her alone
    he said
    my lover gave
    me that doll
    before she
    died–

    I left them
    even broken up
    she was all
    he had.

    © Gay Reiser Cannon

  229. Linda Lee Sand says:

    Nothing Good Comes

    Eyes that will not open
    cannot close, I chose
    an early bed and now
    I pay as I lay
    here awake
    in the middle of the night
    seeing nothing but
    frightful possibilities in
    my mind
    a laser, taser, phaser
    aiming right on
    the what if
    might have
    probably will
    should have done
    one of a thousand
    dark
    possibilities or darker
    still
    nothing
    good comes from
    waking in the
    middle of the
    night

  230. RamblinRose says:

    The birch dance with the spruce trees in the amber light of dying flames
    Flares up again with the spitting and whistling of cedar
    The crack of twigs in the nearby wood reveal unseen visitors
    Coming in for a closer look at the creatures warming by the fire
    The beep of a sow-whet sounds the alarm,
    Warning the wild ones of human intruders

    The howling screams of a pack of coyote send shivers up our spines
    With the knowledge a young fawn has become a late night meal
    The hens secured in their coop survive another night
    Not so a young calf, its bawling mother mourning the loss of her first born
    The darkness unable to protect from wild hunger
    Death and life a perennial part of the countryside

  231. Gwyvian says:

    Predator

    Breathe me in, drink deep before
    you slip into uneasy slumber… no reason
    left standing, no fear of the dark, for I
    have left my mark clearly… be easy,
    as much as you can, and
    drink soft mourning essence, so that
    when the pleasure hits,
    the balance will be eloquent and filling,
    sparkling with satisfaction… breathe,
    keep breathing, and let go slowly,
    let time unravel ‘neath your fingertips…
    drip by drip let my smile be your light,
    a rose that beckons your nectar, and
    offers a gentle kiss… let your dreams
    wash into your thoughts so that I may taste them,
    let them dissolve you into the bliss of your freedom:
    while the others keep playing
    at puppet shows and violent flailing,
    you will have your instincts to cloak you in safety…
    for after this night, you are my lover,
    a predator to seduce darkness itself into submission—
    become mine willingly, and remember:
    just keep breathing, and drink…

    April 6, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  232. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    WHAT IF

    What if this night,
    I say nothing . . .
    Will you mistake me,
    For being invisible,

    Again.

  233. FADE TO BLACK

    Watching the sunset on the horizon
    
hoping that she might be caught
    
in that same moment where night
    
and the remnants of day melt
    
into hues of muted grays and orange.
    
The crash of waves mimics the palpitation
    of her rapidly beating heart, gasps
    
of passion rushing and falling;
    
calling you to resuscitate her.
    
Nightfall continues and darkness
    
is the shroud that hides you both
    
upon this shore, many times lost
    
in the heated rhythm of lovemaking,
    
taking every last breath from the depths
    
of your conjoined souls. Every last star
    
beckons and the moon casts shadows
    on the memory of her flesh beneath your own.
    And you feel her; she permeates your very being,
    seeing nothing but her eyes as beacons in the night.
    You reach to touch her in ways for which
    
she had always longed. Her presence
    
was all this night lacked. Fade to black.

  234. Holly Lynae says:

    “Insomnia”

    There are nights,
    I’ll admit,
    that I miss it.

    I rise from the covers
    with heavy lids and shaking hands
    I can almost taste
    release

    I know that you can see it,
    and I feel it-
    my eyes are vacant,
    empty, still.

    You reach for me,
    your plea
    is begging, desperate:
    “No, please
    don’t go away again.”

    My prayer
    is silent, distant:
    “Oh, let him still love me
    when my soul is gone
    from my eyes.”

    Though today I am well
    and my cross-hatched skin
    has healed,
    there are nights,
    I’ll admit,
    I nearly regress.

    And I should warn you
    not to touch me
    when I do.

  235. Gwyvian says:

    Susurrations

    My breath is not nearly as sophisticated as the night,
    in the way its breezes whisper delights, my voice
    crude in response to those soft susurrations: those
    intricate temptations of enigmatic tendrils caressing,
    smoothing out worries and stark edges alike,
    but never quite swallowing all of the light—
    it is a dance to be cloaked in the dark, where there is
    room to breathe and expand into magical infinity;
    it is a lover’s courting to be given the gems of the sky,
    and the attention of moonshine – so intoxicating;
    in the night, I find divinity and peace, where
    the world and its troubles are not real, and this
    is why I cannot sleep: for nightmares
    are all that wait for me in dreams, but awake to meet
    this darkness that seems to love me and kindles passions—
    that is my living dream, my heart’s manifestation;
    insulated from sunsets to a sunrise, this is my hidden spot
    where feelings that have no adequate words thrive,
    and my voice is not needed, harsh as it may be:
    since this darkness knows me,
    there is no need to speak aloud my feelings.

    April 6, 2014

    By: Lucy K. Melocco

  236. EbenAt says:

    Night Stalker

    Night is the
    hunting time.

    Most fear it,
    fight it with light,
    doors and windows
    closed tight.

    Outside we glide
    silent through
    pitch black,
    wear it
    like a cloak.

    They look for shapes
    to attach their fears.
    We see motion,
    know predator from prey
    by how it moves.

    When the times comes,
    we’ll be in
    before you know.

  237. De Jackson says:

    So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish.

    I already had the bicycle.

           Sure,
    they don’t need each other, but
    they’ll make a fine grouping on my mantle.

    Last night I turned your picture so it faced
    the wall; a timeout if you will. You can count

    if you want, but I wouldn’t hold
    your breath. There’s nothing left here
    of our scars.

    The fault is simply
            in our stars.

    .

  238. NIGHTS ON BROADWAY

    I walk the streets, traffic fading and couples
    parading down the walkway, ducking into doorways
    for a kiss or a grope. You hope they pass you
    and leave you in muted solitude. You don’t mean to be rude
    but the silence you seek is in their absence.
    Moonlight serenades, yet invades your thoughts.
    Clarity is truly a rarity, it evades you.
    You search for answers that are right,
    blaming it all on Broadway nights.

  239. Night Poem

    “Write a night poem,”
    came the instruction,
    and at once I went blank.
    I won’t say my mind went blank;
    no, it was full of invention.

    I started a poem about
    black velvet skies
    and diamond stars,
    but I couldn’t extend it
    past that hackneyed image.

    I thought of writing how nights
    are lonely now without you —
    but the fact is, although true,
    that’s only part of the story. I am
    one who likes aloneness.

    I planned fantastical,
    lurid words to conjure up
    magickal tales of the night,
    perhaps without much meaning.
    They seemed too silly.

    I picked up my book instead,
    settled against my pillows,
    sipped my cocoa and patted my cat,
    as I like to do at night. But you can’t
    make a poem out of that.

  240. L. says:

    Night falls
    And my thoughts go round and round and round
    Till the morning arrives.

  241. Jane Shlensky says:

    Cover

    She waits for night
    to slip away unseen
    to kiss him back

    It’s such a thrill
    this sneaky
    aphrodisiac

    Had they but thought
    they’d know her dad
    has naught of sight

    But something big
    and fine holds them
    in softest night

  242. emsytraut says:

    2014 April PAD Challenge Day 6
    Prompt: “night”

    ONLY WHEN IT’S DARK

    I can see faces every day
    I don’t know how they can live that way
    Each moment of my life
    Walking past the knife
    Waiting for a spark
    Only when it’s dark

    Only when it’s dark can I see the stars
    Only then I know you’re not that far
    I will find my way to where you are
    If only when it’s dark

    I have seen the tears this girl has cried
    They don’t know what she has had to hide
    Walking in the rain
    Holding back the pain
    Missing the mark
    (Well)
    Who’d of thought she’d find it in the dark

    Only when it’s dark can I see the stars
    Only then I know you’re not that far
    I will find my way to where you are
    If only when it’s dark

    They don’t know what saved this woman’s life
    Never tell what kept her from the knife
    They can try to guess but they’ll never know the rest
    Never know the part
    Never know
    Don’t let go of my heart

    Only when it’s dark can I see the stars
    Only then I know you’re not that far
    I will find my way to where you are
    If only when it’s dark

    Because in the dark

    In the dead of night you gave me power
    The brightest light came in the darkest hour
    I’ll never let you go
    They will never know but I’ll play the part
    I’m holding on but they will never take my heart

    So let this world try to break me
    I’m not gonna let them take me
    I’ll hold on
    There’s magic in my heart

    (Only when it’s dark)

    Because only when it’s dark can I see the stars
    Only then I know you’re not that far
    I will find my way to where you are
    If only when it’s…

    Dark

    (C) Emily Trautman

  243. Day 6
    4-6-2014

    Write a night (or knight) poem.

    Knight

    You didn’t carry me off on a white horse
    but instead stood behind the drugstore
    counter in your white lab coat
    and said, “May I help you, ma’am?”

    My mom noticed before I did
    how you inquired about her daughter, though
    she might be coughing.
    You somehow ended up in a photo

    near a prestigious citizen at a prayer
    breakfast, putting you in the paper
    and putting ideas in my mom’s head.
    “Isn’t that the nice pharmacist?”

    I showed you the photo,
    you invited me out–for a weekend,
    but found me accommodations,
    relieving me of wondering if your suitcase

    would join mine, though it was a first date,
    and that wasn’t my lifestyle.
    Being the gentleman, you turned out to
    be a Christian as well.

    I found it so easy to talk to you
    thirty-five years ago;
    today the silences and conversations,
    laughter and tears, cozy round us like an old silk shirt.

  244. beale.alexis says:

    Autumn Leaves

    Give us a time machine for the days
    Where the yellow autumn leaves began to lose their grip

    And my heart began to slip into love
    For a second time

    It began as pure infatuation
    Groomed and stroked by once careful hands

    Now hands brown and filthy, blistered, worked down to the bone
    Because of a past these god-damned hands couldn’t let go of

    Thankfully, our vacant hearts still had a little room for more
    I checked in, thinking I’d only be staying the night

    The weeping moon shined bright through our window
    Locking us in for the season

    And in spite of the cool look in your eyes
    I felt warm. Perhaps, I thought, we could skip winter this year

    But once that final leaf fell from the Hazel tree
    I realized those hands had no interest in holding mine

  245. pomodoro says:

    Night

    How far it is from here
    to my mother’s house.
    She stands in a pool of moonlight
    at the milky porcelain sink
    and stares out the window
    for a long, long time,
    the way people in museums stand in front of paintings.
    She calls out, “I am here!”
    but no one comes.

  246. MaryAnn1067 says:

    Night, Star-Pocked

    Why? Because, with you, she should like
    to stretch out the blackness of the
    night, star-pocked, as she would an elastic band, pulling it out
    so that it lasts a thousand hours before dawn cracks the sky, no,

    longer, so that she could, for all time,
    delineate you, as if blind, with her fingertips,
    the scent of you, too, the speech and intonations, write
    it all down on a map to be referred
    to as a guide in those moments of urgency

    when all seems lost, the sense of the
    world sadly lacking, thrust into this alternate
    universe where yes is no and it is all
    tied up in a thickly twisting bouquet of red tape
    bursting, budding, with acronyms, situation normal
    all……

    the prize for the Queen of this Carnival, to
    listen to lies headily fragrant as last month’s rubbish laid
    lying out in the sun, curbside, stinking, fishheads a-gawping,

    oh! the seven plagues
    falling on the house, the breaking of crockery and mirrors, the
    car trouble, false funerals, the endless mendacity of paid caretakers
    before night, finally, draws the curtains

  247. miaokuancha says:

    April 6, 2014

    Prompt: Night

    — Knock Turn —

    “It gets better.”
    No, actually, it doesn’t.
    The albatross of karma floats behind your left shoulder.
    Knock you down.
    You can either lie there or get up.
    Simple choice.
    You always have a choice.
    The dark bird will always accommodate,
    Master of low flight over deep water.
    Turn around.
    You still dream of the one you left.
    In the dream the roles are reversed.
    It’s how the truth is shown.
    Sitting with friends at a table too small.
    In a strange kitchen.
    All kitchens are strange.
    Borrowed.
    This is where you raise your children.
    Knock knock
    Who’s there,
    Only the shadow knows for sure.
    To every thing
    Turn, turn
    Rhyme and reason, they say.
    Time and season, they say.
    But the moon pulls the tide
    In a danse nocturne.

    ~ miaokuancha

  248. Donna_KM says:

    Dream

    I held a child that does not exist,
    but was mine,
    and I didn’t know
    her name.

    I wondered to my husband
    did we make the right decision?
    He beheld us both and said
    it’ll be fine.

    A friend, an interpreter of night tales
    spoke of my life in transition and said,
    the baby you birthed, is you.

  249. Dan Collins says:

    Day 6:

    広島 おやすみ

    Petals, not embers
    trace the memory of ash
    under other suns

  250. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    THE NIGHT NO ONE KNEW

    Studying abroad,
    Summer before,
    My senior year,
    Of high school,
    Brought mixed feelings.

    Gone six weeks
    Initially sounded like a lifetime,
    To go to Wales in the British Isles,
    Learning about their history,
    Dance, folk lore,
    And more!

    Yet soon after arriving,
    The Welch boys,
    Attendants at the University,
    Came to visit the new students,
    Introducing themselves,
    Inviting a group of us,
    To visit the Roman camp nearby!

    The leader,
    Walked back to talk to me,
    Saying he picked my picture,
    Out of all the rest,
    Because he thought we’d be friends.
    After our connection was made,
    Twenty of us shared a bottle of whiskey,
    Among the ruins late that night,
    Promising we’d never tell.

    After that, my new friend, Geraint,
    Walked me to and from class,
    Talking about his future,
    His family, his friends,
    Asking me all about the US,
    And my life,
    Yet, I never mentioned
    My 17th birthday,
    Coming up in just a few days!

    Hoping it would slide by,
    Unnoticed,
    I never said anything,
    At dinner that night,
    He was most attentive,
    Making a special place,
    For me at the table!

    Not suspecting anything,
    When dessert came,
    A large smiling Welch cook,
    Brought out a huge round pink cake,
    With Happy Birthday in Welch,
    Written on top,
    Using every bit of space!
    Their words,
    Are some of the longest in the world!

    After singing and cake,
    Geraint put on the Beatles song,
    “It’s Your Birthday,”
    We stood to dance and snake our way,
    Around the table,
    Inviting everyone to join us,
    The whole hall started laughing, singing,
    Moving about in delight,
    Lasting all evening!

    Once in my room,
    I heard singing below my window,
    Glancing out, I saw all the Welch boys,
    Serenading me with their songs,
    Amusing dance and expressing much joy!

    So much for thinking,
    It would just remain an evening . . .

    When nobody knew!

  251. SHE SLEEPS

    She sleeps restlessly. For I can see her from my chair across the room. Legs elevated, laptop computer perched precariously across my knees. I am in pensive thought in an attempt to create new worlds and word plays, but staring at the huddled humanity sprawled out on the couch. Finding comfort in any reclined position comes at great effort. She heals slowly. She’s taken a fall. All this speculation of early onset Parkinson’s darkens my mood. A broken wrist and shoulder sprain has her pissed off and moody as well. It’s been bloody hell of late, but we’ve attempted to wipe the slate clean. I can hear her snore, the muffled rasp in every labored exhalation. She denies such absurdity. She’s never snored a day in her life, if you asked her. And I guess I believe her. It is her nights that usually have me taking notice. For this afternoon however, she has earned her reward, noisy as it is. My nights remain sleepless, hopelessly unfulfilled. But it’s no longer killing me. These waking moments hold such promise. Watching her sleep soothes my sensibilities. It is a burden off my chest and maybe my best sleep will come knowing she rests.

    She rests as she sleeps.
    I breathe a bit easier
    watching her slumber
    r

  252. David Walker says:

    Moon Monologue

    Un-ink your quills, writers. Stop
    trying to romanticize the ‘moonlight.’
    There is no such thing.
    Your intelligence misleads you to believing
    there are rungs on this ladder of the
    cosmos. Dust is all you are. Rock
    is all I am. Stop painting faces
    on soulless things.

  253. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    A SIMPLE JOY IN THE NIGHT

    Finding the right spot,
    My son and I set up camp,
    Loved hearing him sleep!

  254. Misky says:

    Dreams in the Colour of Paprika

    There’s a smattering of this place on maps,
    a small town blocked within walls, paprika
    bricks of thirsty red. And here the night
    fell, disposed the sun, and stayed our sleep
    with dreams of howling dogs with slobbered
    teeth, curtains paprika red that spilled
    carafes of sunrise when we woke. Sleep
    in this place was never well, nor restful.

  255. j.ajabad says:

    Sweet Lullaby
    By: Jacqui Abad

    As we lay here
    cloaked in night
    the stars sigh,
    to the sway of the trees
    ruffling our covering
    hearts whisper
    crickets chirp
    wolves cry
    owls hoot
    lulling us to sleep
    sweep slumber
    fills our bodies.

  256. Janet Rice Carnahan says:

    NIGHT PEACE

    When the mind whirs,
    Our system stirs,

    Rest is too elusive,
    Closing eyes, not conducive,

    How do we cope?
    An easy way out, nope!

    A letting go works,
    Forgetting all the quirks,

    Relax and remember stars,
    Refuse to listen to cars,

    Feel the universe breathing,
    Hear the cosmos sing,

    Trust there is Love,
    Surrounding you and above!

    Tell yourself, “Peace, Be Still”,
    See if your mind will,

    Be grateful for your heart beat,
    Feel happy you can move your feet!

    Give everything up for the night,
    Pick it back up when there’s light,

    Tell yourself it was a great day,
    Whisper to yourself, “Yeah”!

    Release any tension, anger or sorrow,
    Know that the sun . . .

    Will come out again tomorrow!

  257. Nightwish
    (by Rodrigo Aleixo)

    It’s a chilly spring night;
    the soft light of the stars
    (probably) highlights the sparse
    hair on your arms.
    There’s the will of distant
    lovers to meet eachother.
    There’s the distance itself
    sadistically glad it interferes.

  258. laurie kolp says:

    Not Your Usual Nighttime Tale

    Odd things happen at night,
    creatures howl, ships sail;
    sorcery by moonlight.

    Dealers lurking, out of sight
    sneak addicts stuff to smell;
    odd things happen at night.

    Sometimes lovers fight,
    curfew’s broken, lies flail;
    sorcery by moonlight.

    Drunk driver runs red light,
    the DA’s kid avoiding jail;
    odd things happen at night.

    Sleepwalking, ghostly white
    binging sweets and cocktails;
    sorcery by moonlight.

    Endless incidences fright,
    slate of dreams a darkened veil.
    Odd things happen at night;
    sorcery by moonlight.

  259. Mywordwall says:

    MOTHER’S GRIEF

    A breath escaped into the night
    of dreams and paradise
    forgot its way to daylight
    A mother wakes in a nightmare
    of her precious child gone
    could they wake up together
    and leave the pain behind?
    Could she find her smile
    now that her breath is gone
    traipsing in that place
    where dream and reality are one.

    ~Imelda Santore

  260. kab says:

    You wax
    and I forget how to fight against the pull.
    You take my poetry, my ankles, my lungs, my tongue
    and I let you because my body is no match for your tidal drag.
    Here I love you more than I do on other nights,
    because my heart is so weak when you are full.
    Honey, this is what you do:
    I leave you.
    And then I come back
    because some part of my body begins to miss you terribly.
    Tonight my chest will dance with stars.
    Tonight the city sleeping in me will shower in your moonlight
    until you wane.
    But you will come back again
    and I will always be waiting.
    I will always be open.
    -Karese Burrows “Night Poem”

  261. Talai says:

    The shadows that hinge around
    The echoes that creak of doom
    The firefly flicker here and there
    Searching for something
    Fumbling to make sure it is that
    Groping the wall to avoid a fall
    Latching onto daytime memory
    Of where it was placed or last seen
    In this dark

  262. Emma Hine says:

    ‘Night Falls’

    A blanket of dark
    billows down,
    enveloping the Earth.

    Birds cease their song -
    their tiny beaks stilled
    until the morn.

    Sparkling stars shine,
    shimmering above,
    like tiny tears in the sky.

    The pale crescent moon,
    a curved sideways smile,
    watches the sleeping world.

    Shadows,
    with nowhere to play,
    hide and sleep.

    The Earth is waiting
    for the new day
    and the hope it brings.

  263. Night Storm

    Heading east, the red-eye high over clouds,
    Sleepless by the window, but looking out
    For any break, the distant glow of cities
    On the plains below, nothing but a sea
    Of clouds, gray cotton batting lit from above
    By a crescent moon. Then come anvil heads
    Piling through the ceiling, and we bank
    To skirt the silent storm. Clouds flash with light
    And fall to darkness again and again,
    The only sounds the roar of engines,
    The thunder of snoring across the aisle.

  264. rachelgrace says:

    night clouds

    As he stared into the stars the night folded over him
    Taking him to their worlds
    Leaving
    Leaving
    Mumbles and mutterings of languages never heard before echoed through nature
    Understanding them he rose
    Rising into the sky arms spread
    He circled them one by one
    A childs game
    He smiled at the translation

  265. k_weber says:

    Night Time is the Right Time for Me to Be with Me

    My brain stops
    being a lawnmower
    and a television
    and a gossipy neighbor
    and a crying baby
    and a shoe on the other foot
    and a foot trapped in cement
    and a loud argument
    and a misplaced mouth
    and a long acre of static
    every night around 11:30pm EST
    when I am tucked in to shadows
    with hospital corners

    It is only then
    and until I fall into a heap
    of sleep with rapid eyes
    that everything is finally
    at low volume
    at a lull
    at a point where i can’t analyze
    at a standstill
    at a hum
    at a deep drift
    and I don’t have to fight
    myself for 5 to 7 more hours
    but often settle for 5 to 7 minutes

    – k weber

  266. The Overnight

    They need constant attention.
    and we attend. Night shift
    is usually easy, soft as sleep,
    simple as stillness.
    Those are the good nights.

    On bad nights,
    the shift’s much harder,
    wakefulness shakes them,
    with catches of breath
    and counting of days
    out loud in the silence.

    Amethyst dawn,
    the first birds call
    out the name of the light.
    The morning’s stiffness
    and slow awakening
    takes them out into day,
    when again they know
    what had been forgotten.

    In daylight, they’ll know me
    the old familiar one, the smile
    in the sun, life in the shine.
    But they’ll leave every night
    when the darkness arrives
    and know not who this is
    who helps them,
    their shadow of a son.

  267. Tamara Rokicki says:

    Night-

    Night is nobody’s friend.
    It comes and it goes,
    Arrives early or late
    And ends up alone.
    Night likes it that way.

    Night doesn’t care
    That when the hour is late
    And darkness is around,
    You are scared of its sounds.
    Night likes it that way.

    Night knows of stars
    And of course of moonshine.
    But it keeps them at bay,
    Knowing it owns them.
    Night likes it that way.

    Night is its own domain,
    Bound to no chain or restraint.
    It swallows and bellows
    And howls as the pale moon wanes.
    Night likes it that way.

    Night owns dreams,
    If it’s merciful so,
    If not it calls them a fright.
    No one can speak of its mood.
    Night likes it that way.

    ‘Oh, Night, why do you slumber
    In the sorrow of men?
    Oh, Night, keeper of minds,
    Will you please return mine?’

    Night says no,
    But then it smiles.
    As it knows it’s only a while.
    At dawn, he must release me.
    And Night likes it that way.

    Tamara Rokicki

  268. Monique says:

    Insomnia

    My head swims with endless thoughts
    While my body aches, trying to find rest
    Dealing with nightmares I already fought
    Demons and distractions, my uninvited guests
    So many songs about restless nights
    So many ways I want to fall asleep
    But none of these songs are lullabies
    Instead, I look at the shadows as they creep
    Lonely and longing for my subconscious to slip
    To drift away, down a river of peace
    Instead fear itself keeps its iron grip
    Keeping my mind from its sweet release
    Finally, ask sleep to find me
    And through asking, sleep sleep sets me free

    • PressOn says:

      I feel a calming rhythm here, despite the content. Aiming tioward sleep, perhaps. Anyway, this poem held my attention throughout. I think it’s well done.

  269. KS20x1 says:

    A Night Poem Day 6 PAD Challenge
    by kelley stephens
    http://www.kelleystephens20.wordpress.com

    Do you miss me in the tug
    and shake of your chest.
    Settled in the center
    of your marrow it’s
    atramentous and cavernous
    and it’s biting.

    Your sonance stains
    my shape as I writhe
    on top of your flesh.
    My eyelashes bat,
    a black veiled harmony.

    Licking pearls off of salted wounds
    so that I might be worthy of
    the lust you have left for me.

    The light you slit my wrists with.
    A bright uninvited guest who
    will come to take my spirit.

    And all that will remain here
    is another sacrificial soul
    shuddering at your feet.

  270. starrynight3 says:

    Night Falls in Homer, Alaska

    Born in the Dakotas and stubborn:
    My mother, relentless as a long winter.
    She raised me in Colorado, but the blizzards
    Stayed in her bones like cold butter -

    Norwegian and Danish; it must be how
    I ended up moving north to Alaska,
    Where I found myself, like Dante, lost not
    So much in the deep wood, but the dark-

    God, the dark – how it overtook me-
    Though I denied it at first making snow angels
    Tracks in the snow but the godless grey
    Of the willows and the way they lay

    Like vines choking light from the day.
    Clouds as tenacious as she was
    Blocked what light left flickered down,
    Down November and into December-

    Down the moonless January night, I still
    Can’t remember. The terrible, tilting grace,
    Of latitude and longitude at 59 earth, a
    Measure of darkness in winter-

    So like drowning, submerged in space,
    Before the earth tipped back and the gasp of day:
    Edgeless always, and ever wheel turning:
    First the ice and the black, then the fire.

    You find yourself in a damned arctic romance,
    The north like a postcard from prison, your
    Fingers grip tight to the door – is it opening or closing
    But there’s no leverage in this leaning world, this Alaska.

    I grow rigid, as my mother did,
    Fight the shifting gravity beneath me.

    • cam45237 says:

      some cool lines here: love “but the blizzards stayed in her bones like cold butter”, “the gasp of day”, “terrible tilting grace of latitude and longitude”. Maybe not great copy for a tourism brochure, but makes a pretty powerful poem!

  271. Pat Walsh says:

    PAD Day 6: A Night Poem

    Good Night
    by Patrick J. Walsh

    There is a stirring in the air
    somewhere high in the night
    moving clouds across the sky
    as though wiping a tear
    from the cheek of the Almighty

    In the chill of mute dark hours
    a faint glow of starshine
    blots the sadness of the evening
    with the passion of a penitent
    fervently praying the Memorare

    The tiny pinpricks of stars
    interrupt the dark discourse of sky
    with the furtive silent heartbreak
    of the mourner hidden in the crowd
    along the path to Calvary

    Dark is broke on seeds of day
    and clouds tell sacred stories
    of saints unseen nearby
    baking bread and lighting lamps
    early on the morning of Resurrection

  272. Marjory MT says:

    BIRTH
    c/w by MARJORY M THOMPSON

    When night slips past its fullness,
    quietness is found
    and poems are born.

    The last low rays of light
    from the departing moon
    leave all the stars to lag.

    Each star now shines as light
    fragmented from the moon
    to aid the birth of thoughts and words.

    Words written o’er the seas of time,
    that will remain
    caressed within the shifting sand.

    Each bit of sand a thought,
    voices that all the stars will hear
    throughout the ebb and flow of life.

    The night and day, the moon and stars
    still ebb and flow a beating serenade
    as yet another poem is born.

  273. dextrousdigits says:

    HOW DO I REACH YOU

    Your day has become night
    your Night is a dark deep cavern.

    Looking at your concrete face
    it would be easy to miss
    the screaming scared eyes.

    If my words could just douse the fire burning your soul

    If my hands could toss you a lifeline before
    you go over the jagged precipice

    If my intent could snap you out of Hades

    If my eyes could look into yours and
    shine light to radiate your heart with slivers of hope

    Now, your combat despair oozes toward me
    black widows creeping for another prey.
    Yet, I can stomp, dodge and move
    to battle spiders for you.

  274. veronica_gurlie says:

    The Nature of Other Humans

    Tonight,
    if I must talk about nature,
    it must be the nature of other humans,
    to cut off their own wings,
    or to become a body of scorched earth, burning my feet,
    to strike so boldly in the dark, like lightning does,
    to spend some nights, cursing me,
    and then by day, dream of me, as a rose,
    they’re ready to cut off at the roots,
    so I may give them all the love, I have saved for myself,
    with the last breath, of my last bloom.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      edited version: Please use this one. i decided to cut it down a bit:0). but I’m satisfied with both.

      Tonight,
      if I must talk about nature,
      it must be the nature of other humans,
      to cut off their own wings,
      or to become a body of scorched earth, burning my feet,
      to strike so boldly in the dark, like lightning does,
      to spend some nights, cursing me,
      and then by day, dream of me, as a rose,
      they’re ready to cut off at the roots,
      and take all the love from,
      with the last breath, of its last bloom.

      • PressOn says:

        To me, both of these are powerful and, actually, poignant. They moved me deeply. Wonderful work.

        • veronica_gurlie says:

          It always amazes me to see how a writer will not like work of theirs that everyone else likes. I almost didn’t enter this cause, I thought if said to much. Thanks for opening my eyes and commenting:0)

  275. VIBRANT HUES

    I sat in a field one autumn night,
    the moon, dark like the devil’s heart.
    All the foliage remains high; a spectrum
    painted with brush strokes vibrant and crisp.

    Unseen and unnoticed
    oblivious to the future’s conundrum.
    Silently minds tossed ideas falling flat
    the big winner unloved; unsavory.

    Blank expressions offered hope and life,
    yet weak to the looks you proffer; alive
    from your passing, yet sad in how sweetly
    you tucked in your wings and fell.

    Every day now, the truths of solitude have dulled,
    cutting and shredding like an un-sharpened blade; sculpting.
    This dale, grass taller and moist, tears from eyes
    gray, where living colors play, one autumn night.

    Taking my cue from “Neutral Tones” by Thomas Hardy

  276. Srividya K says:

    Goodnight
    – Srividya K

    Off to bed
    At the end of the day
    Eyes tired
    Mind still

    A quiet day
    Spent with someone I love
    At home on the couch
    Read a book and slept through the afternoon

    What better way
    To the finish such a day
    Than kiss goodnight and dream
    Of our life with love

  277. geetakshi says:

    Unaccounted Hours

    Darkness is an illusion
    as is bright light in a cave,
    a laugh can be fake,
    as are bright lights;
    Some fairytale endings come true,
    with too many sacrifices to account for;
    Wounds get healed,
    despite the sparks of fire
    poked by way of fun;
    Love doesn’t care:
    Neither does life;
    Such forces to be reckoned with,
    they need energy in excess of wounded lies;
    Such commitments are made
    in the dead of night,
    when lips talk instead of hearts,
    when scars bleed instead of wounds,
    when souls cry for some distant past
    of heroic deeds and lovers that lived
    For their lovers’ life

    ©Geetakshi Arora
    April 6, 2014

  278. LizMac says:

    Night

    Night swallows us up in darkness
    Removing the merciless exposure
    Of the incessant day,
    With its relentless definition
    Of a capricious order,
    And its precise delineation of pain.

    No, night frees us
    Bringing release and merging
    Into a universal darkness
    Where boundaries disappear
    And shadows cloak pain.
    Here, thoughts are freed
    To glide through ink
    Unopposed by shame.

  279. Emily Cooper says:

    Lilly Led-Could-Be-Better

    Oh yes it’s ladies’ night
    babe dough transparent-like

    Oh yes it’s ladies’ night
    Oh what a night
    (Oh what a night)

    O’s gon’ grip his pen and write
    and mind that gap all right

    Oh yes it’s ladies’ night
    Oh what a night.

  280. lshannon says:

    Cool cotton sheets
    Quilted dreams
    Stitched together
    Past adventures
    Current stresses
    Future possibilities

    Patterns made
    And unmade

    Vivid chaotic
    Tangled comfort
    Unsettled
    Unresolved
    History artistry
    Woven nightly

    Lunar lexicon of
    Mysteries hidden
    And revealed

  281. APNEA

    A good night’s sleep is all I crave.
    But, I have become a slave to my disorder.
    Limbs once nimble now churn as I burn
    the midnight oil. I toil each night
    seeking rapture. But I have been captured
    by my demon and random thoughts swirl
    as if strewn by the wind of memory.
    Heart beating faster, a runaway freight train
    through the prairie of my barren soul
    with no control of my own.
    I cough and groan, throat emitted as I spit
    in a foaming fit of rage, roaming the halls madly.
    Sadly, I’m ready for a padded vault.
    It is Disruptive Sleep Apnea’s fault.

  282. gl86 says:

    Flight

    We’re taught to fear the haunted night
    from whence we come and where we go;
    our claws grasping at eternal light,
    ever chasing a dying glow.

    I will not fear the womb of the unknown.
    No, night scares me no more than day.
    When my course is all but flown
    from whence I’ve come, I’ll seek the way.

  283. Poetic_line says:

    Goddess of Bright Nights

    She wears night
    like an evening gown
    with crows upon her shoulders
    singing death’s sweet song.

    Stars greet her entrance
    on a stage where brothers
    play full of flame and fury
    circling, always circling
    her hips and thighs,

    caressing the rim of her lips
    with their tongues
    till they collapse into themselves
    from too much scotch and whiskey.

    Rosalyn Marhatta

  284. Sara McNulty says:

    Twas After Midnight

    Night was nigh;
    he must prepare
    himself to dazzle
    a mysterious damsel
    not yet in distress.
    With full moon forecast,
    it will be easy
    for him to take in
    her loveliness, loneliness,
    ere his approach. Ah!
    purple bands are receding,
    rolling out a black sky.
    He must fly. Straightens
    his cape, slick back
    his hair, and polishes
    his teeth.

  285. MIST IN THE SHADOW OF NIGHT

    A howl of wind calls,
    beckoning all the ghoulish apparitions
    from their anguished slumber.
    The stumbling lumber of death reborn.

    These mystic silhouettes;
    shadows of a past long forgotten,
    rise like a fog that masquerades as thoughts.
    Legend and folklore are dismissed as folly.

    Lunar illumination; moon beams
    shrouded in mystery. Their sordid history
    brings a chill, as fright displaces your resolve.
    Blood marks the place where death resides.

    Your hunger burns and you crave
    the nectar of a once beating heart.
    But, as life departs, the pangs stab
    bringing you one step closer to the soil.

  286. Lady S Poetic Thickness says:

    Role Play

    In the midnight blue sky
    Stars dance before her eyes
    On a blanket she awaits
    But the man of her dreams hesitates
    Where is he?
    Where could he be?
    Will he be found?
    Wait…what is that sound?
    She stands to see a masked figure
    Holding a gun with his hand on the trigger
    She screams but no sound escapes her lips
    He pulls her close with a firm grip
    Her heart races as his breathing increases
    Scared he is going to tear her to pieces
    She attempts to pull away from this beast
    But he gives her no room, none in the least
    He forces her down on a blanket of earth
    As he takes from her all she feels she is worth
    His hands are cold as steel
    As they rub every inch of her body and feel
    The body of someone he chose to claim
    One to him without a name
    With each thrust he rips her world apart
    How did this happen? When did this nightmare start?
    He collapses in satisfaction and breathes a sigh
    A single tear rolls down from her eye
    As he lay there smiling she sees a glimmer
    In the moonlight a knife catches a shimmer
    She slowly inches her fingers towards the blade
    Just a little further and the final move will be played
    He stands to his feet and turns for one final look
    In one quick move, his life was shook
    He fell to his knees
    And he began to plea
    But his voice fell on deaf ears
    Repeated stabs were all the night could hear
    He fell in a pool of blood, she removed the mask
    Who was this masked figure you ask?
    It was the man she waited for
    As she sat on earth’s floor
    Role play had been discussed in great detail
    However he did fail
    To enlighten his fair maiden
    On this plan he had laden
    In the still darkness of the night sky
    All that was heard was her cry

    (C)Sheila Moseley
    Lady S-Poetic Thickness

  287. UNDER THE VALANCE OF NIGHT

    Dusk fell across the valley like a funeral shroud;
    obliterating the light of day and hiding its wretched decay.
    The hollow below held no trace of life;
    the furrowed land sat fallow and empty,
    not even possessing the essential nutrients
    to imply that the soil had once been fertile.
    The chain link fence held it in containment
    as it rose above the barren void beyond.
    It gave the appearance that the Grand Master
    had taken His pencil eraser and wiped
    all that was beautiful and promising
    off of His canvas. But it was a recipe
    that had provided many great things.
    One could be forgiven that the valley
    lay disinterested in its plight.
    The right operator would return her
    to its former productivity. Patience will grow.

  288. In Silence

    The canopy overhead is laden with pin holes.
    Each a yielding light that lingers— I wonder when
    this light started it’s trip here, before I was born?

    I wonder too how many stars have gone missing
    since the beginning of time. How sad to think
    they may never have been missed—

    and what if when we die we become stars;
    burning for seeming eternity— or
    what if the stars are a hoax;

    a con game; an illusion rained down on us
    with a series of mirrors high in the galaxy
    bouncing light beams back and forth

    in a laser show shower. What then of our sky overhead —
    will it lack the romance of night? I squeeze
    her hand in mine but the silence is never broken.

    Michael A. Wells

  289. Nightfall
    In vivid hues of burnished orange the sun hovers, reluctant, above the chiseled peaks
    and soon accedes to plop behind, as effervescent dots of light shimmer across the valley
    But the day is far from over, beneath a freckled sky
    Birds have bid the day farewell and bats have come marauding, brittle wings recklessly beat the melodic chimes into hollow bones cracking.
    The rapid yaps; a dinner bell, the jarring scream of a Jack, and ravenous Coyotes bicker over their meal
    An odor, distinctive and pungent, precedes the arrival of pugnacious Javelinas, scrounging for discarded baked potatoes
    A serenade begins in the bushes, the discordant sound of a million Crickets, rising in volume as numbers increase and I know that Scorpions are soon to follow

    diedre Knight

  290. EINE KLEINE NACHTMUSIK

    Soft sonatas fill the silent eve,
    and dirges dark and dank for when we grieve.
    And in this overture we disbelieve
    that music of the night will give relief.

    Lilting lullabies and children’s sighs
    see the ebb of night through weary eyes,
    while symphonies elicit joyful cries,
    And fades into the darkness as light dies.

    Arias in operatic tones enflame,
    and sung in two-part harmonies the same,
    the Blues remain obscure, but who’s to blame?
    You cut your chops until you gain your fame.

    All through the silent night the music plays,
    until our blessed nights turn into days.
    when songs are bathed in morning’s golden rays,
    Eine kleine Nachtmusik goes a long, long way.

    Rock me, Amadeus!

    Note: Needed to fix that.!

  291. <strongEINE KLEINE NACHTMUSIK

    Soft sonatas fill the silent eve,
    and dirges dark and dank for when we grieve.
    And in this overture we disbelieve
    that music of the night will give relief.

    Lilting lullabies and children’s sighs
    see the ebb of night through weary eyes,
    while symphonies elicit joyful cries,
    And fades into the darkness as light dies.

    Arias in operatic tones enflame,
    and sung in two-part harmonies the same,
    the Blues remain obscure, but who’s to blame?
    You cut your chops until you gain your fame.

    All through the silent night the music plays,
    until our blessed nights turn into days.
    when songs are bathed in morning’s golden rays,
    Eine kleine Nachtmusik goes a long, long way.

    Rock me, Amadeus!

  292. jacq says:

    Sealy by Jacqualine Hart

    Pillow-top speak to me as I nestle into your
    greeting 60 x 80 inches, where I long to let the day
    continue on without me while I lay here in comfort
    and warmth with only my pillow to adjust
    as my breathing calms and the beats of my heart
    slows and my limbs become one with this heavenly
    mattress that is always dependable, always there,
    accepting me as I am, more forgiving than those
    I encounter during life that makes me crave cuddling
    in the fetal position with my Mickey blanket
    leaving the day as my eyes welcome darkness

  293. Richasapenny says:

    2 for 1

    Her Muse Knight

    Rising up I have fallen so far again
    Just want to think I’m always down
    I won’t breathe anymore you pick me up
    Hurry open me can’t you see
    the line jumping up-and-down meeting
    you say something between them
    word girl work boy where are you
    you know you can write me anytime you want
    Just go ahead go ahead just do it
    you know it’s inside you waiting to spell out
    waiting like your belly is cramping
    like your head’s ready to explode
    shopping me click click click
    blue black red use any color just do it
    I’m the book waiting to be written
    write me write me write me
    a beginning…..an end
    Pick me up I’m your pen

    Pennaisim

    This f’ing rocks nights of all of time,
    lovers are shaking in their boots
    wanting to come peer though the holes in our blankets
    to breathe on our naked skin to the loins of bowels and depths
    Taste of the sacrifice and knowing the passion
    Want to beg! They will learn from begging
    To have bowed down and looked up your skirt
    To taste the joy it brings
    Candy wrapper trails like a child
    Grown men will crawl to worship the view

  294. Jane Shlensky says:

    Night

    How gently summer night slips in
    in fancy dress; its satin gloves
    caressing sky settles around us
    like a coverlet sequined with stars
    and galaxies, firefly blinks of light
    and there’s the slipper of moon.

    • PressOn says:

      This is utterly beautiful, and the “slipper of moon” phrase, genius.

    • Jane Shlensky says:

      In Defense of Night

      I side with possums and raccoons
      with owls and all things nocturnal
      who question daytime’s privilege.

      Bright flashy sun, day’s diva,
      makes showy entrances and exits,
      rose bouquets tossed against blue.

      All animals that fear lost sight,
      all nested birds and insects rest
      at night but sing their vote for day.

      The ancients villainized the dark
      when winds and waves joined miscreants
      to steal away security.

      Even night-howlers fear night life
      that’s destitute of neon’s glare
      or gentle shadow casters’ wick.

      Dark deeds are done by light of day
      if we but take our eyes away;
      soft night is not responsible.

    • Angie5804 says:

      beautiful!

  295. Genevieve Fitzgerald says:

    a night poem

    The changes that I navigate
    In daylight with a shrug

    In nightly restlessness reveal
    How much I’ve become

    Accustomed now to elsewhere
    And estranged from my own past

  296. NIGHT OF THE SEA MONKEYS

    It rained last night. Tenth of an inch,
    something to write about.
    In January the reservoir almost went dry.
    This April morning, let’s see
    how the world has changed. My dog
    leads the way to the meadow, everything
    softened by the night’s shower.
    Purple vetch entwines clumps of native
    bunch-grass that seems to survive
    no matter the weather. Climate change?
    That low spot that used to gather
    winter storms, and blossom in tiny pastel
    dots, an Impressionist painting –
    it’s still dry. Where are the salamanders
    and fairy-shrimp? They say sea-monkeys –
    blessed with cryptobiosis, hidden life –
    survive the long spells without water.
    We humans aren’t so cleverly
    evolved. This cool morning hike
    after rain, I forgot my water-bottle.
    Already my throat cries thirst.
    My dog laps from a muddy puddle
    and runs ahead.

  297. feywriter says:

    Charm of Night

    I ask for sweet dreams
    with the birth of this charm
    flower of buckwheat
    protects me from harm

    feather of owl
    to watch as I sleep
    sprinkled with moondust
    to make my dreams deep

    amethyst stone
    will calm the mind
    then strips of willow
    will this charm bind.

    by Mary W. Jensen

  298. Sundowning

    I wait for her messengers. I want them here
    now that dirt has been plowed into April submission.
    I want them snatching the seeds from my neighbor’s ground.
    Plucking a hair from his ugly dog’s tail,
    the black fice that charges me each time I walk down the hill,
    a crow’s nest of corn seed and black fur.

    Near evening the mourning doves whimper.
    I used to relish their song,
    their silent lament as they lay on my plate,
    threat of black shot in each bite of breast.

    Inside her cauldron the ground squirrels
    and opossum, wild mountain ramps, nightshade’s
    blossoming promises bubble
    and chorus her unmistakable warnings.
    Waste not. Want not

    what you cannot have. Thus
    a woman who comes to the age
    when a man does not notice her
    walking the aisles of another night’s
    passage through dark discount offerings
    knows why the doves whimper,
    why a murder of crows caw the Morrigan’s message:

    “My voice breaks through happy house chatter.
    My voice burns a hole in your eardrum
    and pulls through a black feather
    dusted with pollen,
    dripplng with blood.”

  299. Emma says:

    If Only You Knew

    The dark arrives
    And the sky blackens
    Tainted by the murky
    Orange glow of the city.
    My nights are so delicate.

    I rap my jagged fingernails
    Against the cheap wooden
    headboard. Touch wood
    And hope that
    I don’t lose control

    Time feels so heavy
    That I cannot move
    And yet the hours
    That I am not sleeping
    Pass by with such ease.

    Tomorrow morning
    You will ask me why
    I didn’t go to bed earlier
    Because my dark circles
    And heavy sighs give me away

    You wouldn’t say that
    Darling,
    Not at all,
    If only you knew
    My three am thoughts.

  300. Other Mary says:

    Sunday

    Clear Sunday light
    filtered through grimy weekday windows
    wants for nothing.
    Set down your cleaning rag,
    see the cat,
    be the cat
    who sleeps in the sun.

    http://writinginthebachs.blogspot.com/2014/04/sunday.html

  301. NIGHT SEEDS

    Marko and I
    pose in the dark, bare-chested,
    watching the lunar eclipse
    as it dips into Central Park,
    another splotched florin
    tossed in the bank.
    Marko knows stars: he names
    Vega, Deneb, Arcturus,
    the nebula-rose between
    Orion’s legs. What is the fault
    in ours? I’ve seen Marko
    lying drunken on benches,
    pissing in the alleys,
    night after night in the trenches–
    and in between, these moments
    when he turns astronomer
    and murmurs the constellations
    into my naked shoulder
    could almost be enough. But
    we take and scatter what we get–
    these pauses that last as long as
    Marko’s cigarette. Now
    he will want to go back inside,
    sweat instead of sky, club ceiling
    an unpierced black.
    I’ve lied so often in saying
    it doesn’t weigh on my brain–
    I keep waiting for the Big Dipper
    to burst into bloom.
    Marko kisses me with tongue,
    smoke, and a hint of cocaine.
    Our friendship is the sort
    to spill on fallow ground. Without
    a sound, the moon rusts over–
    soon there will be rain,
    from which all the shooting stars
    must take cover.

  302. Eibhlin says:

    BEFORE THE NIGHT OFFICE, EASTERTIDE

    If, on a late spring night, you slip into the monastery choir
    - and slip you may, for the nun who first arises
    will unbolt the wooden door -

    and you sit awhile, or kneel, in the perfumed darkness
    where the only sound is the breathing of cowl-clad nuns
    and the slithering wax of the blazing paschal candle,

    you will know that the fire of Easter that burns in the night-time
    is brighter than any bewildering dark or confusion,
    stronger than any opponent, any hate, any fear.

  303. veronica_gurlie says:

    Now That the Party’s Over

    I look down on it now– that thing we thought we had,
    and simply say, just let it curl up in a bawl, and die, like a sick old cat,
    just let it fall behind, and be forgotten, like the times we almost starved to death,
    let us just pass ways,
    and forget this night we never danced, we never said I do,
    and we never drank from the same cup,
    but thought we had a love, like no other.

    • veronica_gurlie says:

      something slipped through spell check and word check. small edit. “bawl” should be “ball”

      Now That the Party’s Over

      I look down on it now– that thing we thought we had,
      and simply say, just let it curl up in a ball, and die, like a sick old cat,
      just let it fall behind, and be forgotten, like the times we almost starved to death,
      let us just pass ways,
      and forget this night we never danced, we never said I do,
      and we never drank from the same cup,
      but thought we had a love, like no other.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        PRESSON, I did want to tell that I’m never quit sure how to translate your replies to my work or take it as you enjoyed it. This is with all your comments on several pieces of my work. my work is more monologue with narrative poetry and I enter my poem, how my thought begins. This is when I’m not writing in any strict form. I’ve seen your comments on others and they are pretty clear. I thought I would ask you. You never quite say you enjoyed the word. On one poem you said, “Bingo” I’m not exactly sure how to take that or what does that mean, especially in reply to poetry. I would have sent you a private msg but I’m unable to.

        • PressOn says:

          I beg your pardon. “Bingo,” for me, means I think the poem works so well, any other comment I might offer would be superfluous. It also means I thoroughly enjoyed the poem I read. I regard this entire forum as a learning experience, and a “bingo” also means, often, that I’ve learned something. I certainly mean no offense. I wish I could comment at greater length sometimes, but in this challenge there are just too many poems to do that very much.

          • veronica_gurlie says:

            what i’m saying is not on all the poems you read you out right say “good job” or “well done” you do not do this on my poems. I could quote them. I just happen to notice as I was commenting on others. I just wonder why this is so, when you comment on my work. I’m not imagining this. If you take time to look on your comments on many others you will see this is so. I’m just curious as to why. Sorry but your comments are not clear on almost any of my work nor are they direct in compliment as you are with others and it took me to read several comments on mine to notice. I’m not one to jump to conclusion as I have many poet friends and participate in many poet things that involve commenting and critic. I did not come to this with one comment on my work, but seeing your comment on all my work and seeing your comments on may others. It is not about the length of your comments, it is your specific approach to mine which is obviously quite different than your approach to many others. I have noticed we write in very different ways and considered this a factor that plays in your comments on my work. I also notice you did not comment on much of my strict form poetry in which i have posted many in the challenges, but only on the free-verse forms. I have achieved much in poetry and many people know me to not be one to sensitive, if anything I welcome suggestions, almost all the time. I read alot on here, so I can’t help but to notice something in the approach and how some people seem to comment on only people they know here. I comment and out right supports everyones work I read. As writers we need all the motivation we can get.

  304. Megaparsec says:

    I Faced My Foe, My Dreaded Knight

    In the deepest, darkest night
    My feelings full of fear and fright
    My soul desired to take flight
    For hope had disappeared from sight.
    And just when I had lost the fight
    And could not tell wrong from right
    And felt the sting of death’s first bite
    I caught a glimpse of someone’s light.
    Shining, piercing, pure and white
    A beam so bold, a ray so bright
    Looking down upon my plight
    She whispered to me hold on tight
    And lean upon His strength and might
    And let Him be your life’s delight
    For all your pain He’ll overwrite
    On the day you reunite.

  305. ONCE UPON A WEARY KNIGHT

    Good Sir Sigmund had a night
    and took his shield and sword and sighed,
    for he knew it would take all of his might
    (his will was strong, but his sword was slight.)

    Bold Sir Siggy wished to unwind and often
    when he did, he’d find his steed a little skeptical,
    and quite a bit impractical, his plan, extremely tactical
    but he feared his will would lose control.

    Upon the threshold of adventure
    on this ninth of June,
    Sig had taken out his denture
    and threw it at the midnight moon.

    The armored knight had started sweating,
    and he could feel his chest plate getting
    saturated and quite rusted, readying for the fight he trusted,
    but poor Sir Sigmund had lost his bite!

  306. Michelle Hed says:

    Sorry for the repost – this is how it should be (hopefully).

    A Little Night Music

    Rosin up your bow
    the daylight fades
    the frogs begin to play
    night settles in
    the quiet hum of the mosquito
    a slow drum
    the soundless flap of the bat
    whispers of the flute
    rustled noise off in the woods
    the slow charge of the brass
    the breeze in the leaves
    the woodwinds hum
    his rumbling snore
    the cymbal clash
    that startles you awake.

  307. Michelle Hed says:

    A Little Night Music

    Rosin up your bow
    the daylight fades
    the frogs begin to play
    night settles in
    the quiet hum of the mosquito
    a slow drum
    the soundless flap of the bat
    whispers of the flute
    rustled noise off in the woods
    the slow charge of the brass
    the breeze in the leaves
    the woodwinds hum
    his rumbling snore
    the cymbal clash
    that startles you awake.

  308. THERE’S GOOD NEWS TONIGHT

    No news is good news
    and there’s good news tonight!
    But bad news comes without warning,
    it hits the fan tomorrow morning!

  309. Scribbling Sue says:

    PUSSY CAT PANTOUM

    Hey, what can I do with our cat?
    He’s driving us all round the bend,
    He’s furry and stripy and fat,
    I swear he’s the absolute end!

    He’s driving us all round the bend,
    With huge yellow eyes like an owl’s,
    I swear he’s the absolute end!
    If we leave him alone, he just yowls.

    With huge yellow eyes like an owl’s
    To see in the darkness at night,
    If we leave him alone, he just yowls
    Like a banshee, he gives us a fright!

    He so loves the darkness at night,
    Prowling the house for his prey
    Like a banshee, he gives us a fright!
    He’s snoring his head off all day.

    Prowling the house for his prey,
    Which he drops in the bath to torment,
    Then snoring his head off all day,
    Cats never show signs of repent.

    He drops mice in the bath to torment,
    A bloodbath is what it looks like,
    He never shows signs of repent,
    The cleaner has just gone on strike.

    A bloodbath is what it looks like,
    Oh help! He’s discovered our bed,
    The cleaner has just gone on strike,
    And my husband would like him dead.

    Please help! He’s discovered our bed,
    We dread that the next one’s a rat,
    And my husband would like him dead
    Says husband: ‘It’s me or that cat!’

    We dread that the next one’s a rat,
    I posted on Facebook and Twitter,
    Says husband: ‘It’s me or that cat!’
    As I change the next tray of litter.

    I posted on Facebook and Twitter,
    But alas my husband took flight,
    As I change the next tray of litter,
    Alone, I’ll be up half the night.

    So, alas, my husband took flight,
    Oh no, here comes puss with a rat!
    Alone, I’ll be up half the night,
    Hey, what can I do with our cat?

    © Suzanne Lalor
    6th April 2014

  310. IN THE NIGHT

    In the night, she calls my name
    to warm and comfort her, in the night.
    It feels so right as our hearts inflame
    in the night. She calls out my name
    and I know things will never be the same,
    no beacon will ever burn so bright,
    in the night, she calls out my name
    to warm and comfort her. In the night,
    distance comes between us and it’s a shame.
    In the night, she calls my name
    and yet I will be close by; a player in true love’s game
    lifting our hearts to the highest heights.
    In the night, she calls my name
    to warm and comfort her, in the night.

  311. Poetess says:

    Rubber Room Night

    Recalling then
    My high school teacher
    This author she taught us
    The incessant writing of
    Mundane thoughts and
    Exhausting fantasies
    Fascinating me
    Inspiring me
    To write
    I knew
    At sixteen
    Trapped inside
    A poisonous hut
    My power could fly
    I ran leaping at the sky
    Staring at the orange
    Red perfect setting sphere
    Full moon rising horizon
    I was carried away
    To the mattress throne
    Rubber room night
    To the mattress throne
    I was carried away
    Full moon rising horizon
    Red perfect setting sphere
    Staring at the orange
    I ran leaping at the sky
    My power could fly
    A poisonous hut
    Trapped inside
    At sixteen
    I knew
    To write
    Inspiring me
    Fascinating me
    Exhausting fantasies
    Mundane thoughts and
    The incessant writing of
    This author she taught us
    My high school teacher
    Recalling then

  312. SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

    Night falls upon the lowly,
    bright lights fade and shadows creep,
    right before they slumber, they slowly
    fight their weary eyes to sleep.

    Morning sits, a vigil silent; still,
    Moon and stars align at will,
    warning midnight sprites upon the hill,
    soon their lights will die, become nil.

    Day will pass in its allotted time,
    hay made as the sun shines, lingers.
    May the world know night’s toils in rhyme,
    saying all that a heart desires. Fingers

    curl to grasp the darkened shroud,
    mist descends to cover lovers avowed.
    Hurl the pall so all can call out loud,
    kissed by evening’s shadow so endowed.

  313. Michelle Hed says:

    walking with shadows
    twinkling stars my only light –
    soft steps follow me

  314. RuthNott says:

    Girl of My Dreams

    Dark as the night were her eyes,
    Bright as the day was her smile,
    Soft as the gentle rain her voice.
    The warmth of her touch electrified
    The love within my heart.

    The darkness of night became her.
    Moonlight enhanced her glow.
    As she walked the stars shown brighter
    And the owls refrained from “who”ing
    For fear she might depart.

    But where is she now this enchantress –
    Whisked away by the morning mist,
    Chased away by the morning light,
    And I close my eyes in utter dismay
    Willing the dream to restart.

    ©2014 by Ruth Nott

  315. Michelle Hed says:

    NIGHT

    Nodding off
    I think I hear, something that
    Goes bump in the night, just
    Helping to give me a fright but listening…
    There is nothing there.

  316. LeighSpencer says:

    Things that Go Bump

    I love scary movies

    Zombies, ghosts, demons,
    just about any flavor
    of murderous monster

    You can count me in!

    I love dead trees
    old cemeteries
    and houses with windows
    like Amityville

    We stayed in an inn once
    with a 300 year old mirror
    that belonged to Mary Todd Lincoln

    I stared into it for hours
    even sneaking down
    in dark of midnight
    in my nightgown

    Never saw anything
    (scarier than my own face, anyway)

    I dreamed of a ghost in my house
    previous owner
    looking for his porn stash
    (that we donated to Goodwill)

    He was nice enough
    even though
    he disagreed with my taste in paint colors
    and probably missed his porn

    Lest you think my entertainment tastes
    make me immune
    to the ingrained fraidy catcall

    Let me assure you
    my back hallway
    makes me twitchy nervous
    after dark

    And I still jump into bed
    from 3 feet across the room
    hoping against hope
    that the arms
    of whatever lives underneath
    are shorter

  317. Lori DeSanti says:

    What Happens in the Night

    When I grip at the folds in the sheets,
    when you are not there for my hands
    to rest on in night’s solace; I pull the

    quilt closer, but it doesn’t warm like
    your flesh on my flesh, doesn’t rise
    like the breadth of your back when

    you are lost inside dreams. What will
    happen when I wake in the night to
    the silence of the moon, when I think

    it is the gentle brush of your hand on
    my waist, but it’s only the whisper of
    summer breeze through the screen

    rippling the sheets wrapped across
    my hip bone. But me; I wake on your
    side of the bed trying to fill the divot

    from you in the mattress, where I let the
    weight of my shoulders sink, be consumed
    like each echo inside the walls of our room.

  318. veronica_gurlie says:

    For So Long I’ve Said It

    For too many years, I’ve told you I’ve loved you,
    even though you’re shady like an old house, up in the woods,
    and I’ve sheltered you from the chill of a winter night kiss,
    and covered your back from the sharp wind,
    I’ve wondered, if you’re ever going to wake up,
    and just say I love you, so we can be closer,
    but I know that you aren’t,
    I know you know, I have become dangerous,
    I’m just about ready to choke the words, out of you.

    • PressOn says:

      Hmmmm.. this poem builds tension well, in my opinion, but the ending line still shocks. For me, anyway.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        very small edit: (please use this one).

        For So Long I’ve Said It.

        For too many years, I’ve told you I’ve loved you,
        even though you’re shady like an old house, up in the woods,
        and I’ve sheltered you from the chill of a winter night kiss,
        and covered your back from the sharp wind,
        I’ve laid beside you and wondered, if you’re ever going to wake up,
        and just say I love you, so we can be closer,
        but I know that you aren’t,
        I know you know, I have become dangerous,
        I’m just about ready to choke the words, out of you.

        • veronica_gurlie says:

          I’m glad you liked it:0). relationships where one person love other but the other don’t, always seem to have a shocking end. I think because they are so good at hiding it. lol.

          • veronica_gurlie says:

            what is interesting about my poem I think, is how I show the speaker being protective of the person at first but now finally not caring if THEY harm them, because they aren’t getting any love. When people get tired of not being loved back, they can become a big threat.

      • veronica_gurlie says:

        PRESSON, I did want to tell that I’m never quit sure how to translate your replies to my work or take it as you enjoyed it. This is with all your comments on several pieces of my work. my work is more monologue with narrative poetry and I enter my poem, how my thought begins. This is when I’m not writing in any strict form. I’ve seen your comments on others and they are pretty clear. I thought I would ask you. You never quite say you enjoyed the word. On one poem you said, “Bingo” I’m not exactly sure how to take that or what does that mean, especially in reply to poetry. I would have sent you a private msg but I’m unable to.

  319. Nancy Posey says:

    I know there’s a trick to indenting but I can’t remember. If it ends up left justified, feel free to try to figure out
    the white spaces (should I say the void?) NP

    the infinite and the first three days

    So the darkness came
    first
    it was there
    all the time
    settled upon the face
    of formless void
    always
    light spoken into being
    pronounced
    good
    good enough to need
    vessels to contain it
    to reflect it
    strewn across
    the firmament

    light earned a name
    day

    and then darkness
    pulling equal time
    was called
    night

    good indeed

  320. Azma says:

    WHEN HUNGER STRIKES
    (a limerick)

    I once had a very heavy snack
    so I went without dinner for my nighty nap.
    I woke up hungry at midnight
    and took a big bite
    and then again hit the sack

    -Azma Sheikh

  321. Erynn says:

    Escape the day, embrace the night
    Dance naked in the firelight
    Becoming one with the moon
    Knowing that dawn comes to soon

    Short and sweet :)

  322. Azma says:

    BOOGIE WITH THE BOOGIE MAN
    (a limerick)

    There was once a Boogie man from Texas
    Who said “Hey! I’m cool! Don’t be nervous!”
    He would show up at night
    as soon as I turned off the light
    and together we would dance and play checkers

    -Azma Sheikh

  323. Sally Jadlow says:

    Night Poem
    4/6/14

    The night sky
    stretches with a million points
    of light that wink and blink
    at all who will see.

    The night air breathes
    a gentle breeze
    and carries with it
    the scent of honeysuckle
    and fresh-mown hay.

    The night animals hurry
    and scurry
    in search of their next meal,
    while I sit in the porch swing
    and feast on the senses
    of the evening repast.

  324. PAD #6 Prompt: Night
    .
    between the dates
    of her birth and death
    a dash…
    I wonder who knows
    the full story
    .

  325. Tracy Davidson says:

    Midnight

    ghost moon
    I close
    your unseeing eyes

  326. PAD #6 Prompt: Night
    .
    spring moon
    a marble angel without
    wings

  327. MeenaRose says:

    Goodbye To Yesterday
    By: Meena Rose

    Winter is coming, winter is staying
    Such are the words of the seers
    Heat Maker, Flame Mother is my calling
    I disagree, these are words of my peers

    Rage fills me as I bid farewell
    My kith and kin, now strangers before me
    I am the blame – that is the story their eyes tell
    I repeat, let them go, let it be

    Candles lit, we stand in vigil
    Casting love upon the world
    Face aglow forming sigil
    Warding against lasting cold

    Light rushes forth unhindered
    Casting warmth, mending fright
    A mother’s kiss that night lingered
    Upon a face whose smile was bright

    I am Sun’s Maiden, hearth warmer
    I am Dragon, destiny wielder
    I am Moon’s Consort, peace keeper
    I am Aeona, harmony seeker

  328. Night

    breaks my will every time
    it falls I fall
    dawn so redeemably convenient
    like a red laser checkout scanner
    at the Safeway
    Night does not fall but we think it so
    it is why we invented Euclidean
    geometry
    Night does not fall or even glide
    except we will it to
    Night is why we live in a Legoland movie
    architecture
    and why I like to believe
    we were once at one with the night
    living back to basically
    like birds in their nests in yurts
    and roundhouses and tepees
    back before we brought our outhouses
    in
    our houses hanging like infinite dwelling places
    moon shaped full and glowing
    unfolding forever in an open star filled sky

  329. Taylor Mali says:

    Traffic Signal at the Corner of Midnight and Jet Lag

    Even with the shade down in our room after midnight
    I can tell when the traffic light on the corner is turning
    from green to yellow to red, not because the color
    comes into the room where I cannot sleep, but rather
    I can sense the change. And I feel the signal is for me,
    that I would know the meaning of each light if I could only sleep.

  330. DanielAri says:

    “Wants in a lifetime”

    Some nights, I look at every butt—
    women’s butts—peeling down their jeans,
    lifting skirts to the shadowed ruts
    that separate her hemispheres.
    My vows made their own shadow lust

    ‘til death. The whistle rears itself,
    steam from a kettle. Once I saw
    one look pass between two colleagues
    and unmistakably knew how,
    traveling together, they’d rutted.

    He’s married, and she’s our boss. Now
    I can’t see them without spying
    the story of their raw horseplay
    ghost-galloping to be entombed
    in separate, unmarked graves. Shame, but

    some nights, that hot pivot sliding
    so close almost starts me crying.

  331. Bruce Niedt says:

    Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is the good old “look out your window” prompt: Spend a few minutes at your window observing what’s outside, then make a list of nouns, colors and verbs and create a poem from them. Here’s my poem, also with a reference to “night”:

    Harbinger

    spring is late this year
    nothing pink or yellow outside
    but my neighbor’s
    inflatable Easter Bunny

    which slowly and eerily
    rises and falls from a hatched
    and decorated egg

    which we cannot even
    ignore after dark
    as it continues its creepy
    slo-mo peek-a-boo
    illuminated from within

    come on, flowers
    please come steal the show

  332. De Jackson says:

    Chivalry
    (a shadorma)

    She wanders
    until startled, saved
    by a night
    in shining
    armor – silver-plated sky,
    gallant glint of stars.

    .

  333. The barber of third street

    Have you noticed?
    Ever since he started
    a barber shop in his house

    Marco has lots of customers,
    especially late at night.
    He must be really fast

    because most of them only
    stay a few minutes. Some
    don’t even turn off their cars.

    But they keep coming back.
    Maybe I should see if
    he has any business cards.

  334. alana sherman says:

    Day 6 A night poem

    All At Once

    All at once and never
    we have invented

    everything in this universe.
    The bull frog’s bellow, fireflies

    whose signals, rising hard
    and bright over the grass

    on a sultry June night,
    are not random.

    The dazzling stars will take
    their places again.

    Night will come again.
    All at once and never.

    one is never enough so here’s a sort of cento

    The Dark Is Not Without Humor
    If you can’t sleep, rest heavy…

    When day melts
    into night if you listen
    you learn what
    night can teach:
    wonderment and dread, how to be alone.
    You can reinterpret

    your reveries and nightmares
    undo day’s doubts in night’s dark
    hollow. Barn owls and
    Mockingbirds sing of shadows,
    sing to the stars: The fullness and surprise
    of the world come at midnight.

    alana

  335. Cin5456 says:

    Hunted

    Alone, in high heal and pearls,
    unsteady, stiff, purse held tight,
    keys in hand, listening for a heavy
    boot heel, or the whoosh of a door
    opening anywhere nearby.

    She hears her own breath
    when she remembers to breathe,
    and the unconscious whimper
    she can’t suppress.

    Her heel catches in cracked concrete.
    She stops to retrieve her shoe,
    hears a pounding drum beat,
    thrumming bass, wailing guitar
    grow loud – a door opened.

    Bent over, arm reaching out
    she turns her head toward the source.
    Breathless, she kicks off
    her other shoe and runs
    in torn nylon stockings.

    Cynthia Page

  336. RavenCorbie says:

    Alone

    The gentle flicker
    Of the single candle
    Set upon my coffee table–

    The barely audible
    But velvety smooth
    Chords of Bach’s cello suites–

    The scent of
    Sandalwood
    Spiralling slowly from my censer–

    I swirl my glass, then breathe,
    then taste a single sip
    Of dark red wine–

    The world wraps around me
    At night.
    I feel its embrace,
    A soft blanket of cool, dark, silent
    Solitude.

  337. sdwc8181 says:

    Vellum

    Between the bed and the night table,
    discarded or lost
    three sheets of vellum, almost unreachable
    expensive paper intended for serious sentiments.

    His eyes riveted to her unmistakable, curly penmanship
    careful, deliberate script.
    In the black words he heard her voice,
    her love language exposed.

    He imagined her unconscious smile, a delicate hand holding the pen.
    He could almost feel the rise and fall of her breast,
    shallow breath of desire,
    anticipation.

    The words dragged his eyes across the grey parchment against his will,
    passionate declarations pierced his heart.
    Her promises of love battered his memory—
    Hadn’t they been in love all these years?

    Three drafts unfinished,
    the perfected note on its errand.
    A husband alone
    On the night she went out with a friend.

  338. DanielR says:

    SCREAMING INTO THE NIGHT
    That reckless, crazy crackhead three doors down
    stands in her front yard at two a.m.
    screaming that the night swallowed her children
    and from my window I see her pot-smoking boyfriend
    on the front porch getting high
    convinced he is doing nothing wrong
    since the President said it’s okay
    And the children…..they are safe for now
    CPS came three nights ago and took them
    and I hope they don’t return
    because she always thinks it’s someone else’s fault
    that she don’t have a job, that she is an addict
    that her life is crappy and I am sick of all
    her misplaced blame
    I scream into the night “Shut Up!”

    Daniel Roessler

  339. shellcook says:

    These things of night are real to me,
    old friends, lost loves, these dreams I see
    are filled with life and lives been lived,
    spun wildly, wake on parallel winds,
    like leaves that fall from different trees…
    they are unseen in light of day.

    These secrets found in dark of night,
    unbend and open without the light
    whispering and swaying beyond the veil,
    they break their globe and spill their tales.

    To me, this gift, dimensional sight,
    within the dark,
    beyond the night,
    opens the floodgates,
    brings forth the light.

  340. Night

    God spoke and out
    of the darkness, there
    was light, but now

    and then, darkness
    is better, more perfect,
    more fitting, somehow,

    for what nighttime
    brings. Imagine
    trying to seduce

    a lover in the full
    bright light of day—
    it isn’t impossible,

    but sunlight lists
    sharp and pungent,
    and the nighttime

    is all softness and
    sweet shadows and
    seduction itself.

  341. Carl Palmer says:

    Ponderings

    shadows flicker from an ebbing
    amber candle on the farm house porch
    just off Old Mill Road, too hot to sleep.

    Solstice stillness in rural dark deepens
    following a distant dim lightning flash
    rumbling thunder this midsummer night.

    Invisible insect songs vibrate, orchestras
    offer background sound, nocturnal noise
    serenades silence and soaks into my soul.

    Crickets join cicada squall as trills of tiny
    tree frogs call, an owl’s question answered
    by the whip-o-will vainly whistling his name.

  342. MeenaRose says:

    Moon Beams

    By: Meena Rose

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who has stolen all my smiles?
    Whose subtle words bring on relief?
    Whose tales show off his wiles?

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who makes the Moon blush?
    Whose gentle laugh serves as aperitif?
    Whose hinted banter makes me flush?

    Have you happened on the thief
    Who transforms Dark to Light?
    Whose ministrations have ended all grief?
    Who makes me feel like a bird in flight?

    Moon betrays his presence;
    Yes, I can feel his essence.

  343. Night Owl

    It’s night again
    You can’t sleep
    Your mind is
    Wandering off
    In the deep.

    You toss
    You turn
    The mind
    Is a well
    Oiled machine

    My my
    Sometimes
    You wish
    You could
    Delete the
    Thing.

  344. Debbie says:

    WHO’S TO SAY

    Can silence fill a quiet room
    when strangers lurk about
    Or even when the stillness seems
    to convey a deepened shout

    Has wearied dreams caused sleepless nights
    and dampened a cloth of down
    Then given face to many a sight
    of objects going ‘round?

    It seems to me that fancy eyes
    can cause a picture glow.
    But who’s to say these sights we see
    are there to never know?

  345. MeenaRose says:

    Killer Instinct

    By: Meena Rose

    They call me the Black Widow;
    I leave dead men in my wake -
    Wealthy, desparate and young;
    They can’t evade my web.

    Who are you to ask why? Do
    You think it can be pinned
    On me? You think that was
    A confession?

    Your breathing just got
    Shallower, raspier, vulnerable;
    Come closer, my Darling;
    You, I really like.

    That’s right, you have chosen
    To drink my venom – you now have a
    Choice to make – one memorable night
    Or your life – but you must hide

    For I will always seek;
    Grant me a daughter – your
    Life will be spared;
    Black Widow is waiting.

  346. Dennis W says:

    This Night Is So Honored
    (a short ballad)

    Sunlight wed them together
    with rays of golden ties
    wound thin around them, to hold them,
    with a love that should never die.

    Then the dusk fell upon their lives;
    flecks of other souls
    with times ago on their swords
    and battles still to go.

    And the evening took another turn
    losing count of the other
    He of her sunny smile of joy
    she that he is no bother

    Now it is the night to rescue
    golden ties now injured
    and bind the wounds from the day,
    this night is so honored.

    Dennis Wright, April 6, 2014.

  347. pcm says:

    Irish Lullaby

    The day dawns full of promise
    A lark begins to sing
    My heart will run freely
    Toward what sunshine brings.
    My true love is calling
    Wake up with me.

    At noon no shadows gather
    My work still feels like play
    I wonder how you are
    In the light of day.
    My true love is calling
    Be patient with me.

    At dusk the treefrogs burble
    As I walk through the woods
    A herd of deer rambles
    Where a house once stood.
    My true love is calling
    I can’t eat with thee.

    The moon and stars in heaven
    Light up the night with hope
    I sing with some old friends
    Of days long ago.
    My true love is calling
    Do remember me.

    In darkness before morning
    I lie in bed alone
    You tell me then sweetly
    Live and do not moan.
    My true love is calling
    Live on without me.

  348. MeenaRose says:

    When The Well Runs Dry
    By: Meena Rose

    When the night falls,
    The rational brain stands

    No chance against the
    Inquisition of one’s heart.

    Doubt creeps in sneaking
    Its tendrils ever so

    Carefully around the heart
    When day becomes night.

    Thump. Thump. Thump.
    The heart beats against

    The restraints as the tears
    Fall and tumble – aimlessly

    Seeking an escape emptying the
    Well without regard for the future.

    The well runs dry and the soul is
    Parched and it can’t comprehend why.

    Barren and arid and harsh by day;
    Fertile and wet and lush by night;

    Doubt – it sets in
    Encasing the light.

  349. Patricia A. Hawkenson’s Day 6 Night Poem

    Night Needs Me

    For if I were not there

    to feel its blackness,
    to notice when only
    pinholes of light
    can find their way,

    to grasp the oppressive
    sadness that cannot cry
    in day,

    or hold it accountable
    for shutting out
    the scraps of happiness
    that fell from today,

    if I were not there,
    night just might fade
    away.

  350. MeenaRose says:

    Nightfall

    By: Meena Rose

    I welcome the dark;
    The ability to be alone;
    The moment when I can
    Finally let my guard down.

    Drape-less windows are a boon
    As a I lay there inertly;
    I take a deep breath and
    Widen my glance – I need more stars.

    At a simpler time with much simpler
    Language, I simply knew that the silvery
    Far away lights were there for me;
    In fact, they danced to cheer me.

    Now older and presumably wiser,
    I am still drawn to the night sky;
    I welcome the stars, near and far,
    As they make their nightly debut.

    There is something comforting
    About these silvered wonders of night;
    Old and ancient, a vital tug to
    Look above and breathe in with delight.

    “Lift up your eyes and see with your heart;
    This hath failed no one – you will see,”
    He calleth upon his Children by name;
    Often through His stars, God comforts me.

  351. P.A. Beyer says:

    Be on the lookout

    A master of disguise
    it’s been described
    bold & brash
    subtle & discreet
    boisterous, laughing
    naked, bleak
    In the background
    it lurks
    Frozen, blue
    It hides its guilt
    This bloodied hunter
    Revolving
    like a mirror ball
    Hovering
    like a ghoul
    Always planning
    always plotting
    The perfect pinch -
    stealing sunlight
    The thief moon

  352. candy says:

    Midnight Sounds
    Raindrops bouncing from shingle to shingle
    on the porch roof
    then tapping on the window pane
    Cars swishing softly past on wet pavement
    The rasp of a sandpaper tongue
    as the cat performs his nightly ablutions
    Slow, rhythmic breathing beside me
    Creaks and groans of an old,
    arthritic house settling on its foundations
    Thunder rolls in and covers them all
    I turn over, pulling the quilt up to my chin,
    and quietly surrender to Morpheus

  353. priyajane says:

    Tonight
    It’s a night when the full moon
    is close to heaven
    and leaves its glow on leaves
    that are half awake, now confused
    It’s a night when empty promises feel real
    and unexpected shadows show their face
    in the trillings of the wind
    adding rustles to your quiet nights
    that sparkle with faraway tales
    and illusive spirit
    It’s a night when everything seems possible
    and you just breathe in its fantasy
    for real !

  354. Gammelor says:

    I went out walking
    on a soft summer night.
    Fireflies were winking,
    Orion strode high.

    On a soft summer night
    solitude means not alone:
    Orion strides high,
    raccoon scuffles stone.

    Solitude means not alone—
    nighttime full of company.
    Raccoon scuffles stone
    trying to find colonies.

    Nighttime full of colonies—
    fireflies were winking.
    Trying to find company
    I went out walking.

    Gammelor Goodenow

  355. mindiaust says:

    Ray Ann Walker, Saint Rita Church Festival, 1971

    All the women at the white trash church festival
    swerve strollers like bumper cars.
    Too much Rolling Rock,
    everything zooming, electric,
    rides like giant tinker-toys
    bound by the stuff of school art projects,
    glitter, glue sticks, duct tape on the safety bars
    wet with sick-kid snot.
    Sight as shameful as three-months-along
    Ray Ann, who’ll go from talk
    to whisper and hush of the town
    after tonight, after those K-Mart gold
    hoops lasso Mr. Most Married,
    Mr. Least Likely to woo her,
    winning a ring toss.
    Surprise! A cheap bear stuffed with nothing.
    No, she’s heavier with lust than that, and because lust is just
    love-less-evolved—
    monkey with a breast in his mouth
    instead of a yummy banana—
    up they go in the ferris wheel’s
    rickety squirrel cage of death.
    saying whatever name
    rolls from caramel apple tongues.
    So sweet, this windswept night, even the trees
    tease the cloud-tendrils with eroticism,
    and the silver slant of moon could only be God
    winking approval at such pleasure.
    faces indistinguishable from sky,
    with the rest of the world, rightfully,
    and rightly, where they’ve always been:
    beneath them.

  356. Shennon says:

    With mounting desperation I try again
    to blow the candle out.
    Once again the bliss of slumber escapes me
    So I sit alone, impatiently
    Reflecting on the day I’ve just passed –
    on my life.
    What have I done to deserve being held –
    a prisoner of my own actions?
    Solitude does not sit well with me
    Nor does the growing hunger of which
    I am gradually becoming aware.
    The more I ponder the incompletion
    of numerous projects that I was always
    eager to start,
    the more distressed I become
    and the more hopeless it all seems.
    Agitation sets in as I realize the candle is still burning.
    Hurriedly, I pinch the flame out between
    my fingers,
    In order to better lick my wounds in the dark.

    –ShennonDoah

  357. rlmatt7 says:

    The great illusion

    Contrived shadows prey
    on remembered fears
    never experienced,
    the darkness stirs

    dubious memories ,
    Trees metamorphose into fantasy
    beings, While men mutate
    to have more limbs

    than they woke up with,
    In tight built houses
    sleep is bolted,
    While the night walker hurries

    from urban myths
    of bloodied newspapers,
    The owl watches, will the mice
    venture,Insomniac Robin sings

    to the baby’s sigh,
    How slow the clock ticktocks
    to the 24/7 night worker
    A new born cries, someone dies

    Timer clicks alive the bread machine
    more precise than the sun,
    Hit the snooze
    on the phone, prolong the great illusion

  358. Night Vision

    In that time the ancients
    called the death mist,
    others the black sun,
    he knows it as
    the ‘tween times,
    before new day has begun.
    Ideas spring unbidden,
    prompted by moonlight,
    meditation not required.
    Great rhymes are found,
    written down, or lost,
    no matter how inspired.
    It’s the night shift,
    poems bathed in shadow,
    starlight used to burn
    the words in stanzas,
    each spinning on its axis,
    a muse-ical nocturne.

  359. dhaivid3 says:

    Poem title: The Eyes that watch until Forever

    Who is still out there / in darkness of night
    When all life on earth is a-resting?
    Who takes out the time to / discover my plight
    Who listens to hear my heart beating?

    Whose arms stay strong when / no one comes along
    When this head I lay on a pillow?
    Whose face flashes bright / with the angels’ song?
    Who stays awake until the morrow?

    My Blessed Redeemer / I know You are near
    I fall asleep without a-trembling.
    You are the strong One / brushing away my tears
    I thank You for loving and Blessing.

    When everyone sleeps / You watch and You keep
    Your eyes open until forever.
    Thank You for the love and / promises You keep
    Thank You for not changing, not ever.

  360. stargypsy says:

    Summer Night

    Soft summer night
    Driving into the country

    The sky is midnight
    blue and stars so close
    they can be touched

    Sweet kisses
    Warm breezes on
    bare skin

    A lone train whistles
    in the distance
    stirring Memories
    of a distant past
    When they shared
    love and laughter

    Walking hand in hand
    to the stream’s edge
    Cool water on
    bare toes
    Smooth River Rocks
    underfoot
    They wade deep
    to Baptize their Love

    Copyright © 2014 Annie – Original Poetry
    Always…I wish you peace, joy and happiness, but most of all I wish you Love.
    As Ever, Annie

  361. jakkels says:

    The conference with its groups of intermittent friendships,
    A memory on the road,
    Floating above mechanical control and lights and route signs.
    Children and companion and burgers perhaps,
    In your bubble of contentment with 4 wheels and sound,
    You con your carriage to the curtain of night.
    Night the stealer of sight
    Futile lights scratch a path
    Narrow and hedged with dark
    The carriage hisses along
    The tar scaled path extends
    Then at a bend in the road incandescent lights and a load and
    The car shudders As the behemoth Rushes by
    Then night and the light again reclaims
    Your fractured concentration.
    The carriage rushes past trolls and trees
    Imagined hovels and electrified poles
    Shapes loom peripherally
    Then are lost in night following
    Long hours you surf the wave of darkness
    Imagined and real dangers lurk out of sight
    Then the dawn, and your town,
    and your street, and your house
    You alight.

  362. mbramucci says:

    Sheltered by white fog
    Warm breath of leaves and bonfire.
    I dream of secrets

  363. donaldillich says:

    Fear of Night

    During the day he could call her,
    interrupt her experiments with a voice
    that would swallow up her work.

    He could take as many showers
    as he wanted, he could look outside
    at daffodils shooting upward,
    as if they were trying to escape.

    On the couch he could doze away,
    waking when he needed to,
    when darkness behind his eyes
    became too much.

    Then the sky
    began eating the blue with black,
    he could hardly breathe in his room.

    What was behind the door he’d closed?
    What was lurking near the windows?

    He imagined he heard a conversation,
    people talking low about his life.
    “Did you hear he went to the hospital?
    Don’t you know that he’s crazy?”

    Her car wasn’t arriving, but her clothes
    hung in her closet, hiding something
    that he should investigate, to save her.

    He began pulling blouses, pants,
    suits, out. Pushing his hands inside,
    he felt something soft and creepy.

    When she found him he was dressed
    in her coat, hyperventilating, eyes
    a part of the night that couldn’t leave,
    shivering, waiting for the light to come.

  364. elledoubleyoo says:

    Civil Night, or What Juliet Should Have Done

    Do quiet your tongue, Juliet, and stop
    this talk of cutting people into stars.
    It’s a little bit morbid, to be frank.
    If you’d stop prattling and pacing, you might
    hear the cries that herald bad news before
    your Nurse brings you the cords. And when she does,
    don’t threaten to hang yourself, maudlin thing,
    and don’t wait for Romeo to come to your bed.
    You’re already screwed. When I come to you,
    let my dark cloak cover more than flushed cheeks,
    let me carry you down those silken cords,
    and carry you through the cobblestone streets
    to get your man out of Mantua, and then,
    stop rushing. Know one another, and breathe.

  365. Ravyne says:

    At Night

    At night, when I love you most
    I listen to your gentle breathing
    Your face softens like a child
    and I do not fear your hands

    At night, I pretend we are lovers
    passionate, yet tender
    We are a river chasing stones
    and I do not fear the bruises

    At night, I do not sleep
    this is the only time we are together
    I tell you about my day
    and I do not fear the yelling

    At night, while you are sleeping
    I invent our marriage — alone

    • Linda Voit says:

      This is an amazing and powerful poem. May I make a suggestion based on the fact that you have done something brilliant here? Because of your impactful line: “I invent our marriage,” you might consider dropping ” — alone”, which you have made unnessessary with “I” in this stellar, stellar end line. “I invent our marriage” startles and sticks all by itself.

  366. CathyBlogs says:

    Sleeping with Stephen King

    Last night —
    the wine, the hour, the want? –
    I became quite small, and took refuge
    in the crowded bookcase,
    slipping between the covers, the dark
    dense with a descant
    come, come
    climb with Krakauer, Everest
    full of snow and death above us,
    a summit calling come,
    come touch the sky,
    Anne Morrow Lindbergh,
    fly and cry and write your way
    here before us, stands the great
    and mighty Ozymandias, Shelley
    and I bow and laugh
    he takes my hand, we
    dance a reel, McMurtry and I,
    until the music fades
    at the last picture show,
    the plains wind blows through
    the open roof, the stars
    should be high above us;
    but it’s full dark, no stars,
    and oh, Stephen, take my hand,
    stand by me;
    I don’t like this hotel, this hall, these rooms
    are cold and dark and I pull a sheet
    over my eyes, folding inside,
    slipping the words between
    the pages of a battered notebook,
    dreaming on.

    by Cathy Dee writing at CathyBlogs.com

  367. AleathiaD says:

    Ellipses

    At night, when the house
    is settling into its joists
    and we into our bed,
    the dog paces the perimeter.

    His side of the bed
    then mine to be sure
    we are still breathing,
    the dog’s nails clicking
    the linoleum and tile
    like a sad old man’s tap dance,

    the landing for the stairs creaks
    under his weight and the soft
    thump of his foot pads in the pile carpet
    start to wear my nerves.

    He repeats three times
    before finally settling down.
    It is always at the point
    where my anger boils
    at his pacing
    that he ceases.

    My heart now racing
    at how easily I’m pushed
    over my threshold
    when all he tried to do
    was clear the old ghosts
    back up the stairs
    for the night.

    Aleathia Drehmer 2014
    April 6 Night

  368. PKP says:

    He said in the night…

    “a coward dies a thousand deaths a brave man dies but once”
    sitting on the edge of my three-year-old bed -
    I curled trembling in the ebon dark – inhaling his strength
    held in each strand of his wool bathrobe – inhaled sweet cigarette smoke
    and turpentine – and curled trembling in the dancing dark –
    reaching for bravery I found only one small female coward –
    shivering in the now shared dark
    stilling only – finally – in the silent, strong curve of my father
    solid sentinel sitting

  369. Jenn Todd Lavanish says:

    Night Duty at Home

    The sun goes down
    And the noise goes up

    Sizzling on the stove,
    Dog scratching at the door
    Water running in the sink
    Knives scrap plates
    Chewing, licking, slurping
    Chairs then stairs
    Dinner time

    Thumping of feet
    Television blaring Jeopardy
    Laptop keys clicking
    Water hissing in the pipes
    Bathtime

    History channel
    Bombs and Nazis
    Toys crashing in bins
    Storytime read words
    Hugs, kisses, Goodnight wishes
    Bedtime

    Husband goes to bed
    The television is mine
    I cut it off,
    the dog lays by me
    I draw
    I read
    I leave my family upstairs
    Quiet time

    I go to bed late
    Hoping my bed is welcoming
    Snores, bugs whistle outside my open window
    and more Vikings
    Creaky bed
    Now I can’t silence my mind
    Relived my kids sleep the night
    The whole day replays
    Crazy time.

  370. Pengame30 says:

    I feel silly for this one, but is my poem still eligible to win, even if the title is in the reply space? A couple of poems I entered didn’t get titled until I put it in the comment. Can someone email me? It’s kind of difficult to sift through hundreds of posts. cstrife26@gmail.com

    • kh42711 says:

      Let me know what you find out, I haven’t titled all of mine so hopefully this isnt a rule I missed somewhere?

    • alana sherman says:

      It isn’t a law that all poems have titles even though, in my opinion a poem without a title is a little like a child without a name. As long as your poem fits the prompt for the day, and is postedon that day(if you post it late on another day it might get lost) it remains eligible. I’ve found it a good idea to put the day and prompt in the comments before I post the poem. Saves confusion. Alana

  371. Margot Suydam says:

    What Night Leaves Behind

    Blue newspaper on my stoop
    Young couples slithering home

    From an all-night fete. A giant
    garbage truck rocks, rumbles

    Blocks in rows of sardine-parked
    Cars, while a police siren wails

    Down the next street. Athletes
    gasp, grasp an early morning run.

  372. kh42711 says:

    I was always taught that brother meant protector
    so why then
    when the sun
    slipped past horizons edge
    and night crept up slowly
    feeding my fears
    would I see your shadow
    in that crack under my door
    and slide slowly off my bed
    quietly across the floor
    to double check the lock?

  373. novacatmando says:

    False Dawn

    At first glint of day, birds fill the damp land with cacophony, then go silent as a touch of dawn is again nightfall. A promise then broken. White mana back to heaven. A most desirable Raphael announcing the world is flat and fain. Sleepless air unmoved except with a musky stray cat fooled by the fullest of the moonlight. A lone gatherer. In this humorless dark. Until that moment of the sun’s mirth, if it really does. In this region of false winds, thin against the dimwitted thrushes and sparrows that are sure of blue day.

  374. PKP says:

    Mother Night

    “Night, night”
    She’d say with a mega watt smile
    Cheery as she was all day
    Waggled fingers at the door
    As though I would sleep
    As though I would fall in slumber
    sweet
    Instead Fear – spawn of
    Night rose in full cape-swung-glory
    wrapping me with no
    escape caught in thick folds of tantalizing
    terror -struck
    enchantment – paralyzed
    until first fingered light shimmered and soon …
    She’d say – floating head in the doorway with that mega watt smile
    “Good morning – Sleep well?”
    As though
    As though

  375. Linda Voit says:

    Red is Grey and Yellow White

    Thanks unknown English girlfriend
    of 19-year-old Justin Hayward
    for giving him satin sheets.
    Thanks, Justin, for writing Nights
    in White Satin and Moody Blues
    for making it a swayable long slow dance
    for dim seventies school gymnasiums
    draped in crepe paper where we all
    felt it, knew it, sang along, could not
    forget it. And even more, thanks,
    drummer Graeme Edge, for Late Lament
    about six minutes in.

    Mid-eighties, my boyfriend speaks it at will,
    at my will, perfect intonation
    each image true to life, the mother,
    lovers, the lonely man, and that line –
    red is grey and yellow white –
    that nugget of truth all have seen
    but never even thought to name, hope
    in the lament if we’re looking for hope –
    things are not as they appear at night.

    This recitation, one more reason
    to fall for him. After 24 years, he still
    enacts it if I ask, no missed beats,
    except my heart.

    Linda Voit

  376. Kathy says:

    Last Piece of Today

    I love the hour of dusk
    when day melts into dark
    that time when cares slip
    soundlessly into tomorrow
    I relish the slow hours
    requiring little attention
    filled with familiar tasks
    no urgency or upheaval
    just you and I sharing today
    and our plans for tomorrow

  377. Rolf Erickson says:

    Listening to the Dark

    It seemed like forever before
    I learned to listen to the dark.

    The sounds that only night knows
    that tiptoe out to taste the moon.

    We were standing under The Oak
    wondering what would happen next.

    You breathed aloud and suddenly
    it was all there—the night, the voices.

    So much more than I could listen to
    starting with the beating of your heart.

    And whispers from trees and insects
    and clouds and soft trickling water.

    And then that deep deep humming
    of this vast breathing earth itself.

    I was enfolded and now I comprehend
    that never ever again will I be lonely.

  378. DanielR says:

    STORMY NIGHTS IN AN EMPTY HOUSE
    The heavy knock of hail pelting my window
    wrecks my peaceful slumber long in coming
    thunder rumbles out it’s warning far too late
    as bright lightning bolts illuminate the sky
    and somewhere far away a dog barks with fury
    Live Oak branches claw at my house
    ripping and scraping at the shingles
    as if fighting dying
    sheets of rain cascade upon
    the metal roof
    pooling into puddles
    my alarm clock goes dark
    and I am alone
    never more aware
    than on stormy nights

    Daniel Roessler

  379. lionetravail says:

    “The Other ‘Tyger Tyger’”
    by David M. Hoenig

    Having failed to obtain law’s permission,
    the factory failed in its mission.
    Too much smoke by night
    when its smelters burned bright,
    got it fined for nocturnal emissions.

  380. lionetravail says:

    “Strip Club”
    by David M. Hoenig

    Hiding under night’s veil, it sits:
    majestic,
    destination epic,
    magical, alluring, erotic.

    Full of promise, it tempts:
    desire,
    techno choir,
    salacious, illusory fire.

    Feast for eyes and senses, it offers:
    dance,
    love’s chance,
    sex without substance.

    But unmasked under day’s floodlight, it squats:
    provacateur,
    tawdry eyesore,
    mendacious, back-alley promisor.

  381. PSC in CT says:

    Coyotes

    The nights are the worst
    (although, she’s getting used to them).
    In darkness, her mind reinterprets
    what her eyes have seen; magnifies missteps,
    manufactures mistakes, threshes anxiety –
    culling the seeds of inadequacy
    from every success.
    Doubts redouble,
    angst increases exponentially and
    pleasant dreams become a chimera –
    ducking her every snare.
    This time, though, she’s certain
    she’s outfoxed Morpheus.
    She’s counting sheep.
    Slowly, she feels
    her thrumming pulse decelerate,
    her every breath becoming softer, lighter,
    smoother with each leaping lamb, until
    just before she drifts off
    into sweet, peaceful sleep,
    she hears the coyote’s call

    PSC/2014

  382. Pengame30 says:

    Vamping like Saya from blood plus
    I wonder if this is true blood
    Sharpened fangs pierce through epidermis to tendon
    Everlasting darkness engulfing consciousness
    “You will let me in.”
    Breathe sweet, rest deep

    Written By: Sean Drew

  383. shellaysm says:

    Nightly Ritual

    Spun round
    and round
    until just the right spot
    and just right moment
    signaled it’s due
    then curled up to insulate comfort,
    warmth
    fur still damp and askew
    where moments ago
    an all-encompassing itch
    was relieved
    by a wet-toothed chisel
    now forgotten,
    lost
    beneath deep, deep breaths
    of deep deep
    puppy sleep.

    Michele Smith

  384. Beth Rodgers says:

    A hush falls
    Renewing the calm
    That makes goodnights
    Feel peaceful and
    Instinctively lovely.

  385. PressOn says:

    MIDNIGHT IN MACEDON

    Years ago,
    this town was wrapped in farmland;
    years ago,
    at midnight all was quiet.

    But suburbs came and farmland faded
    and olden ways grew distant, jaded,
    and olden buildings were torn down
    in odd attempts to save the town.
    But people worked in the distant city
    and gave the town no shrift, or pity.

    So, today,
    the farms are senior homes;
    so, today,
    at midnight all is quiet.

  386. veronica_gurlie says:

    This I tell You, Some Nights When You Go Out.

    Whatever you do, don’t leave me alone in the dark too long,
    and not knowing where you are, or who you are with,
    or why you haven’t called,
    and with nothing to do, but wait for you,
    and maybe just sink into my jacket,
    as the night grows cold, and unresponsive,
    I will think I see myself, as a ghost in the car lights,
    and then wonder if I’ve been murdered,
    and if so, was it from the grip of loneliness.

  387. Writing Poems

    In the dark hollow of the night,
    I trade my sleep for time to write.
    Idea clouds form overhead;
    in blinks of time they can be read.
    When half done, they may dissipate.
    It’s in the cards to stay up late.
    It’s only signal to press on,
    until a chorus like a fawn
    will scamper in the forest green
    and sing of wonders, sight unseen.
    The earth rotates and time will crawl
    till words flow like a waterfall.
    Poems paddle by in their canoes.
    I so prefer this to the news.

  388. Emma Hine says:

    In the fullness of time
    The world will be mine,
    Darkness will shine
    Would that be a crime?

    For many long years
    You’ve been weeping those tears.
    Can light allay fears?
    Come, join the dark spheres.

    Little by little,
    The light I will whittle.
    Daydreams may be brittle…
    Find in darkness, acquittal.

    When I rule the world
    With darkness unfurled,
    Night’s fronds come uncurled
    And shadows be swirled.

    A glorious night -
    Though some might take fright -
    When I banish the light
    With cimmerian might.

    Who am I you say?
    The antithesis of day.
    I will lead you astray.
    On your dreams I will prey.

    Before long you’ll see
    You’re no different to me.
    Set yourself free,
    Veiled in obscurity.

  389. Till Next Time

    Like two little elves
    with quirky smiles
    and mischievous eyes,
    coming out at midnight,
    my sister and I make hot tea,
    pull out the Scrabble and dictionary,
    and play into the wee hours
    until she wins more than me,
    and suddenly she’s tired
    and we call it quits.
    When did we get to bed?
    Oh, it was early.

  390. Silent Knight

    There once was a knight named Big Mac
    One night he fell under attack
    He fought bravely on
    But silenced by dawn
    Now he’s gone and won’t be back

  391. Deri says:

    The Company You Keep

    At night
    they have always
    come to play,
    whispering intonations
    of fear and lust,
    lack of love.
    Absence of life.
    Gentle urgings,
    take a knife
    (or a pen), cut out
    the crusty heart.
    Who is worthy
    anyway?

    At night
    we talk,
    philosophize and moralize
    of whys and hows,
    of whens,
    never if,
    and they dance
    just out of reach
    if I swing an arm
    to bat them away.

    At night
    we wrestle
    like sweat-glistened gladiators
    fighting for dominance
    because sometimes
    I am not interested
    in what they
    have to say
    but they so insist
    on being heard.

    Long decades and thousands of miles
    they always find me
    at night
    these suicide demons
    crouching in my head.

  392. lionetravail says:

    “Cinderella’s Twenty Four Hours”
    by David M. Hoenig

    She turns her bashful face away
    and runs from revelatory light:
    thus night falls. Other she starts to pray-
    she turns her bashful face away,
    having decided, only earlier that day,
    to attend the Ball. But comes chiming midnight,
    she turns her bashful face away
    and runs from revelatory light.

  393. Clae says:

    Night, A Bridge, Starlight

    He sings of the stars
    his love for all law
    he cannot comprehend
    such changes to his world
    confliction in his soul
    He sings of the stars
    he’ll himself go
    splash sink into darkness
    he cannot live life uncertain
    with one last look at the heavens
    He sings of the stars

    T.S. Gray

  394. Night Poem April 6

    The text part of my tankart:

    starlight
    in the night garden
    a poem writes itself
    the perfume of love
    intoxicating me

    The complete tankart is here, with image, is here: http://wabisabipoet.wordpress.com/2014/04/06/poem-a-day-april-6/

  395. aphotic soul says:

    Mirrored Mirage
    by Paul Andrew Ryan

    In the shadows a man stoops, staring at the star lit sky,
    And in his head the memories loop, unable to sort truth from lies,
    As he stares at the crescent moon, all he sees are her lips,
    Inevitably to fade soon, as it slowly starts to dip,
    He chases after it to no avail, panting and skittering to no particular tune,
    But he was always destined to fail, as time tick tocks ’til the morning noon,
    And in this desert of his mind, he is so mercilessly confined,
    Sand blowing until he is blind, chasing after fiction undefined,
    As he runs for hours then days, it shortly turns to weeks,
    Though he continues on his way, the outcome starts to look bleak,
    But one night he finally catches her, and kisses her pearly whites,
    Then he starts to strain and stir, for there is no hope nor light,
    He tries to pull away, as asphyxiation sinks in,
    And frolics with dismay, when he realizes what a waste it all had been,
    As the lights go out from his burnt out eyes, he is brought to the church as he slowly dies,
    Brought back to the start of all the lies, death’s kiss in a clever disguise,
    For the moon that was promised to him, was nothing but a mirage,
    A light that had gone dim, consistently and cleverly camouflaged,
    And as the life pours out from his skin, and the moon gleams with a mischievous grin,
    We are reminded of the game that no man can win, yet it is how life and death always has been.

  396. A Little Night Music

    The notes of your voices echo,
    as teeth are brushed
    and faces washed.

    The last dove stakes its claim
    on the roof –
    letting out one, last, soulful tune.

    The basement pipes rumble
    with rushing water,
    as yesterday’s showers and dishes
    are forgotten.

    Bare feet on hard wood floors
    scurry up
    after one last glass of milk.

    Books are read silently,
    in unison.
    A laugh of recognition here –
    an “Oh” of surprise in chapter two.

    These melodies of night converge
    as heads rest on pillows,
    and the house sings
    its solitary song of sleep.

    Cristina M. R. Norcross
    Copyright 2014

  397. “Night Song”

    Glowing lanterns wink
    across a quiet river
    as muted moonbeams
    cloak the weeping, silvered owl
    “Twoo, twoo”, he echos his song.

  398. DanielR says:

    NIGHT IS MY RESCUE
    A peaceful night rescues me from myself
    and the frenetic pace of day
    breathing heavy, in and out
    the darkness sporadically broken
    by headlights bursting through mini-blinds
    as they circle my square room
    and after goodnights and prayers
    my thoughts diminish into hollowness
    and I embrace the fullness of slumber

    Daniel Roessler

  399. veronica_gurlie says: