A Dream

poeEdgar Allan Poe
                        image credit Google store 
    In visions of the dark night
        I have dreamed of joy departed-
      But a waking dream of life and light
        Hath left me broken-hearted.

      Ah! what is not a dream by day
        To him whose eyes are cast
      On things around him with a ray
        Turned back upon the past?

      That holy dream- that holy dream,
        While all the world were chiding,
      Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
        A lonely spirit guiding.

      What though that light, thro' storm and night,
        So trembled from afar-
      What could there be more purely bright
        In Truth's day-star?

Storm Diary Sean lysaght


image credit gallerypress

Wind from the east is a banshee wailing

at the door, from the west a howling chimney.

The worst nights, the car is tense as a cat.

The two of us are there at the center

of force nines shaking the gate and rattling

the loose slates of our insistence:

we have made the right choice. Hours of telly,

journals entries, phone calls from outside

pass our time in the light house with a query

(even as the whitethorns  I planted knuckle

down and shy away from standing straight).

How many winters before our hears are

twisted? And the wind answers: by the time

you know that, it will already be too late.



Ocean, don’t be afraid.

The end of the road is so far ahead 

it is already behind us.

Don’t worry. Your father is only your father 

until one of you forgets. Like how the spine

won’t remember its wings 

no matter  how many times our knees

kiss the pavement. Ocean,

are you listening? The most beautiful part 

of your body is wherever

your mother’s shadow falls.

Here’s the house with childhood

whittled down to a single red trip wire.

Don’t worry. Just call it horizon

& you’ll  never reach it.

Here is today. Jump. I promise it’s not 

a lifeboat. Here is the man 

whose arms are wide enough to gather 

your leaving & here is the moment,

just after the lights go out, when you can still see,

the faint torch between his legs.

How you use it again & again 

to find your own hands.

You asked for a second chance 

& are given a mouth to empty out of.

Don’t be afraid, the gunfire 

is only the sound of people

trying to live a little longer 

& failing. Ocean, Ocean—

get up . The most beautiful part of your body

is where it’s headed.& remember,

loneliness is still time spent

with the words. Here’s 

the room with everyone in it.

Your dead friends passing 

through you like wind 

through a wind chime. Here’s a desk 

with the gimp leg & a brick

 to make it last. Yes, here’s a room

so warm & blood-close,

i swear, you will wake—

& mistake these walls 

for skin.