Insomnia

Pretty much the basics of being awake too much at night.



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Insomnia

Sunlight’s refraction through the cracked

kitchen window  this morning;

the water needs of rye and fescue weighed

against a possibility of drought;

that my hip now aches no matter the weather,

and sometimes my heart skips beats;

my wife’s nighttime sighs and her breath

on my bare shoulder;

my youngest son shifting in his bed

as his brother turns the front lock,

and the dog trotting down the hallway

when the door is pulled softly shut;

that my father would have been seventy-two

this year, my mother, seventy-one;

the moon's deliberate arc across our skylight

on this, the first night of autumn.

Surprise

Might have stolen a line from someone when I wrote this one many years ago.

Surprise

A trained eye can isolate

stars even during such in-between

phases, separate them from

a schooner’s mast spiked

into uncommitted dusk.

But someone should have mentioned

how dusk might linger like this,

how daylight and a diminished

horizon might refuse one another

as easily as they refuse the half-moon.

Even the ocean seems unsure: five-hundred

feet below, a slack tide barely pulses

toward the line of seaweed strands,

distressed driftwood, diminished legs of crabs.

From this bluff, from this bed of clump

grass, only that single light

on the schooner’s mast has purpose,

an unnatural beacon any eye would find

until finally even it is directed

away, perhaps into the surprise

of strong water, into what becomes

of dusk.

Lost

Yet another old one. Because, really, all of them are old.


Lost

Shadows cut imprecisely into

the riverbank.  Rain

like fingers reaches beneath

the current and pulls different

water to the surface.  Somewhere

in this river’s mud are footprints—

only hours old but a path

back to familiar topography. 

Waiting beneath conifers

that betray a cloudburst’s

passing, I try to predict an age

at which men understand how thunder

begins as silence, how foolishness

is wisdom’s sly twin.

 

Catch and Release

Knee deep in a flush of late spring snowmelt, you slide

the barbless hook out of the trout’s translucent lip then cradle

its body at a forearm’s length in water cold enough

to pull breath from your fingertips. Early season trout

are greedy, and the first time we fished together

you worked a gullet-snag for ten minutes, all the while

cursing the fish’s lack of discipline. But this fish, its flesh

cleanly pierced, earns whispers of praise—

coos of love you speak into a new year of catch

and release. 

Pennies

Another old one.

 

Pennies

Of the many things I had to explain was lying

motionless, pennies balanced on my closed eyes. 

My mother voiced annoyance as my father stroked

his chin and asked about this fascination with death.

His shirt smelled of butane—a working man’s cachet.

I said I was fascinated with nothing but thought

we should rehearse being still and learn the weight

of those coins, that if I died before he did I wanted

to have practiced everything.  His lips opened and closed. 

My mother gasped and left the room.  I inhaled

butane as my father stared into me, his fear so strong

that Death itself would have paused mid-grasp.

This is an old one--written in graduate school and submitted to the "Room of One's Own" poetry contents. There's more to the story, of course, but we'll just keep that a little secret.

Going Crazy

1.

I leave to escape fragments

of previous conversations

I cannot swear to ever having.

It is the warm gin that affects me,

I tell myself, or too much poetry

or aftershocks from a single

mescaline overdose. Nothing more.

At the water’s edge I strip

and float into the cold,

fogged-over Pacific, wondering

if a man could drift to the

Cape of Good Hope with nothing

but skin and survive.

2.

Once I looked up from the Equator

and wondered why the sun seemed

no different, why I could not feel

a shift in polar influence.

But I can tell you water dripped

from a faucet, though it spins

with time when it reaches the sink,

vanishes just the same.

3.

What are the visible signs

of going crazy? I have asked

the round-faced postman,

who listens, and, once,

the milkman, who does not.

Tell me, what will I lose

first: my gait? bowel-control?

the simple ability to hold my hand

steady, like this? I think of my

three children, sweat beaded

on their cheeks, watching

my firm grasp loosen digit by

digit until they slip away and fade

into the common American blizzard

of apologies for drunk fathers.

  

4.

I know a man can stay afloat

a lifetime through only occasional,

fluid sweeps of one arm, forcing

the head back and trying

to remember to breathe. So little

is required: it is instinct;

it is years of lessons and learning

to find a way up through clear

water to sunlight. Yet,

I drift in the moonless

tide. This is fine, I say,

and dream of the breathless

life beneath the surface rising

with open mouths to consume

me, to drink from even

the first star.

When Things Close In

I am not especially claustrophobic, though if I were to try spelunking I might find otherwise. Being in cramped elevators or train cars does not bother me, nor does spending hours in an airplane. On my ship in the navy, by bed was a thin mattress laid out in an area only slightly larger than what I imagine a coffin must be, though perhaps a little wider and taller. The bottom of the bed above me was less than an arm's reach away. I learned to "sleep small," I think, and even now in a queen-sized bed I don't wander far from my assigned place. My backpacking barely accommodates my length and girth, but it is a fine place to spend a night or two. A couple of years ago I lay in that tent during a loud and wonderful thunderstorm in the mountains of southern Yosemite, and I was quite warm and cozy.

In a less literal sense, however, my feeling of claustrophobia runs deep. I have known this for a very long time, but in the last few weeks I have come to know it better. My work life is, for the most part, devoid of stress, something I sincerely appreciate as I grow older. Many years ago, in a job that I truly hated, things were otherwise. The woman who was my boss was also the only person I can say that I truly hated. I have disliked people, but never hated. It is a waste of time and energy to hate people, isn't it? But, even as my current work life does not keep me awake at night or cause me much anxiety, it is still somewhat confining. Nobody, however, is to blame for that confinement. The situation is just what it is, and nothing more. Were I more energetic and more career-driven, I could probably shake my life up with great effect. I have also quite efficiently and systematically subdued any creative bent I might have once had.

The classroom I teach in two nights a week is stuffy and hot, truly confining in a physical sense. The class runs for two hours each night, and when I walk out the door to come home, I am exhausted. This probably means I am doing too much of the work, but that's a different story. One night not long ago I walked out of the classroom and out of the building after class, and the cold, fresh air on my skin and in my lungs was something I wanted to never go away. I felt as though I'd crawled out of my sleeping bag and into a morning breeze high in the mountains. Every night since, I have looked forward to those few minutes between the building and my car.

Yesterday I drove to the mountains and spent nearly three hours cross-country skiing. It was my first trip in about two years, and for at least an hour my skis and my feet were not working well together. Every stride seemed unnatural and uncomfortable for quite some time. Then, things changed: I was no longer thinking about what I was doing, I found myself relaxed, and I simply skied. And when the snow started, I stopped in a large, open meadow and relished the cold air.

It was good to be outside.