Ph: Love: Mind Games Poem by Brian Johnston

Mind Games

1.
God, how I hate (when I can't go to sleep) ,
HATE the feeling sleep never will come.
In moments like this, I wonder if my death
Might be a lover with real potential,
Though the possibility of soul being real
Could mean death too, is but a dream fantasy.
Daylight offers countless scapegoats, whereas
Sleepless nights are empty. You feel powerless,
Mind, more ethereal as cotton candy,
Crushes intellect with its weight, my
Ego's furious at how all facts lack proper shape,
The pieces of this restless dream only a collection
Of missing parts from other player's tables,
Only its empty box suggests my puzzle's even real!

2.
I wake to legs crossed like pick-up sticks,
Luckier than hedonists who choose
A king size bed where you can lose even yourself.
Lying on our backs usually, her lighter parts float
Up and over, one flesh against dawn's light,
(As if the night has joined us at the hip somehow.)
And yet, just moment's ago, it seems,
I despaired of ever sleeping again.
Unsorted now, in a body hopelessly enmeshed
With her, I wake to no firm purpose but love itself.
God, how did I ever get to be so lucky?
I stretch a little and as stiffness leaves joints
I bathe my soul and body in the light of day!

3.
Her back to me (now she is on her side)
But always well within my reach,
She nestles, her neck soft on wrist's inside,
Bare foot pressed down on top of mine,
As with a child, I dance though I am prone,
Support the vessel of her soul, stem to stern,
Much like the ancient fabled turtle said
To carry man's whole world upon its back.
What purpose found is holier than this?
The sound track of her dreaming breath
Skitters soft like autumn leaves across my flesh,
Tympanic membrane pressed against its bone,
Her sleep waves meld with ancient shore,
Life's music tastes to God's ears like a vintage wine.

4.
Though all dreams have their restless twists and turns,
Our day's best gifts, night's deepest peace as well,
(Like birdsong) , are haiku blooming into verse,
Verse into sonnets (Shakespeare longed to write) ,
Even free verse gets a passing grade at times!
All just the music that God loves to hear!
Their rhythm, their crescendo soars on silent wings,
The cymbal of God's promise seen, not heard,
It arches over windswept meadows in our minds,
Still, our small sparks are stuff that God's dreams feed on.
And if I'm right we're all that's really on His mind.


Brian Johnston
July 17,2017