Night Writing - 3

Part 3

(continued from HERE)

i see a dark room
i walk in
there are closets of glass
glass closets filled with water
inside are what appears to be people
are they sleeping i wonder
but no, i think they are suspended
they're not dead
but more dormant than anything else

their positions are odd
half standing and half slumped
in their strange unnatural slumber
the water is murky

there are beams in the room
pillars to be more precise
like the ones outside old colonial homes
but the paint is worn off

i think about what i see
it doesn't bother me
but i think about and find it peculiar
and i still hear myself speaking to you

i see things often
more nights than not
i wake in the wee hours of the morning
i see
i think

but it seems rather silly to say "i think"
doesn't everyone think
surely they must
all people think things
perhaps they don't think much about the thinking
i do

how many things i think in the night
in the morning before dawn
but i let myself drift back off to sleep
and later i get up and i live another earthly day
as the day goes by i think about you
i think about telling you the things i see
what i saw and heard during the night

things and thoughts and sights
between sleep and wake

i think about eve and adam
about angels and heaven
about mysteries so beautiful
that to solve them might almost seem a crime
but i secretly long to solve them nonetheless
or at least be challenged by them
during the morning before dawn
and at night between sleep and wake
things i let myself forget as i live another earthly day

and i still can hear myself speaking to you
saying and opening
asking and inquiring
wanting and needing
to give and to receive
to respond
to say
to speak
to see

© Rachelle

Part 1
Part 2

Night Writing - 2

Part 2

(continued from HERE)

a woman in a rocking chair
her hair tied up in a scarf

the window is to her back
beams of sunlight shine through the window
just brightly enough to hinder slightly my full view of her
she's more than a silhouette
but i do not see her face

she rocks
her head leaned against the back of the chair
and tilted upward almost as if staring up into the sky
a sky that would be visible were it not for the ceiling above
yet she's more lost in her thoughts than lost in looking

by her side is a boy with curly blonde hair
perhaps 4 years of age or so
and in her arms a baby
the boy has his head leaned against her
her hand strokes his hair

she knows he's there but it's a saddish scene
though perhaps not - who knows
she's only partially present
or seemingly so

but the odd thing is the children change
first the boy and the baby
then two small girls around 2 and 6 perhaps
then a baby and a girl

changing
shifting the image

but the woman is the same
distant yet not
looking but not looking
not praying but almost
in this semi darkened basement

and my discourse continues
my chronicle of words and thoughts
and explanations

then the woman is gone
the children are gone
and i'm crossing over some rocks
intent on each step

tan suede hiking boots
the way the small boulders move and shift
as i walk my feet challenge the solidity
and they challenge my determination
each testing the other

the sound is crisp
the sound of the rocks
the crunch of stones and dirt
the dampness of earth

and i think of telling you of this
that's always the case
i see things most nights
most nights, likewise,
i say i will speak to you of it but i don't
day comes and i live another earthly day

© Rachelle

Night Writing

Part 1

seems i went to bed hours ago
hours and hours
but it wasn't hours
just seems like a long time

laying there drifting between sleep and wake
i hear my words to you
they seem clear in moments like that
between sleep and wake

and while i speak i see
i walk down a sidewalk
i'm thinking to myself that its more a matter of meandering
having no specified destination
merely traveling along the side of the road
but not a busy road
not a dark road
not a light or day road
just a road and just a sidewalk

to the left and the right are wild flowers
pink and blue and yellow
i think of how they sprouted there
all by themselves
they weren't sewn by human hands
they weren't cultivated
noone pulls the weeds that grow between them
and they don't seem to mind much

no roses or gardenia bushes
no pansies or tulips
just simple flowers

i look up and in contrast i see the winter branches
the trees have shed their leaves
and the bareness of them is striking

i think about the contrast of seasons
and two seasons existing simultaneously

i still listening to my conversation with you
some discourse
as if only just one more attempt
and i might be able to explain
or as if at last i might understand
if only i could ask the question properly
if only i could accept your answer
but that is the problem isn't it
the root of it
my inability to accept changes and losses
my inability to move past things that only i know are there
obstacles i can't manage to navigate well enough

and the image changes
and it shifts
vibratory
as often is the case
and i'm in a basement
yet more as an observer only

a woman in a rocking chair
her hair tied up in a scarf

© Rachelle
Some time in March 2011

Part 2
Part 3