Nocturnal Writer - Part 2

I've decided to continue my first post last Wednesday entitled Nocturnal Writer and share with you a poem I wrote regarding the subject.

I'm still mystified by my recent discovery. All this while I had either convinced myself that I was a morning person, refused to accept that I wasn't, or somehow led a balanced life between being a morning and night person without fully falling victim to one or the other. How's that for confusing?

But now that I've accepted that I am in fact a night person, below is a poem I wrote about how my writing seems to take off once the sun falls behind the earth like a yellow plate slipping between soapy fingers and the moon rises like billowing lace curtains against a silent wind. I hope you enjoy it, and with Christmas Eve tomorrow...may you enjoy this season with family and friends, while also finding time to realize the true meaning of Christmas.

Merry Christmas everyone!!! To everyone who reads my blogs, leaves comments, became a follower or just takes time out of their day to see what I have to say I appreciate it all! When I first started this blog a year ago I could never imagine it would grow to become a part of my daily life. But now, without fail, each Wednesday, here I am, writing another post...and I love it! Like I mentioned many times before, this blog is another extension of my writing, and I couldn't live without it. Each blog post is random, because I free write each one, but somehow there's always that underpinning of connection between them all. Next Wednesday seems hard to believe will be my last post for 2009! Crazy right? I'll have to make it extra special! :)

Moonscape

By sun’s light I once wrote,
Seeking words amidst its
Gold-fingered touch and warmth.
The proverbial highway drenched
In mid-day’s sparkling aura.

When it fades like a gray-skinned
Barn, darkness tumbles into voids,
Spilled tubes of ink leaking into
Shadow-drenched corners, filling
Up the evening until it is night.

My inner words escape, through a
Passage accessed only when the sky
Is awash in sugary morsels. Time’s
Hands are parallel to the twelfth hour.
A story forms itself like the tide ebbing closer.

What is it about the night?
That so inspires me to write, to mold
A vague idea into something solid
Like wisps of smoke back into a cigarette?
Why not other times during the day?

The night has an infamous reputation.
It is the only hour set upon the watches
Of society’s illicit. It is when bonfires and
Beer bottles litter the night, dodging the law
And any notion of common sense.

Night is when the world drenches itself
In slumber, like an unfinished painting.
Beneath the film of darkness color
Pulses alive and just as brilliant.
I touch it, and this is where it begins.

Ideas tumble forth, like a thousand
Books open. Words melding into one
Another until they resemble a story.
Darkness beyond the cold glass of my
Windows is meant for sleep, but I lie awake.

Well past the time when cats restlessly roam
I lay hunched over pen and paper, another
Novel taking shape like the one-eyed moon
Fingering lace curtains, falling through to
Quench its curiosity of this nocturnal writer.

What then, shall each night bring?
Haphazard ideas, a flash of brilliance.
Will it bring the elusive ending of
A story within grasp? One must only
Wait until the moonscape appears…to know.