Sleeping in Verse

Recently I’ve become a poet in my sleep or rather in my not sleep. As the REM cycle or even shut eye gets harder and harder to find (and not just because it’s dark) I am left with my thoughts. My mom warned me about this. A few days ago she told me to get as much sleep as I could in preparation for my trip. Not only will my days be long and full but taxing in every way imaginable. I was never a rebellious child but with this my advice, my body and head seem to be at odds with each other and certainly not willing to such sound advice. So I lay in bed, my eyes refusing to open and my mind doing cartwheels.
Verse has come to me. I never spent much time reading or writing poetry. The style didn’t quite grasp me or perhaps I never quite grasped it. But as I recall my days with hymnal in hand and organ trumpeting throughout my childhood church, I guess the words of Charles Wesley, Fanny Crosby, and Isaac Watts guided me through the world of verse by putting a melody to it. So far I’ve written over a dozen poems within the last two weeks. They are rough at best but somehow my words seem to be best spoken there. Perhaps it’s the anticipation and reality of visiting a new land. And not just a new place with different food, unique customs and strange neighborhoods. I think the new land holds a much deeper meaning in my soul, as if the heart of that land and my in my chest are long lost sisters, finally able to meet.

I leave this one to lay witness to the thoughts inside my head, so grateful that I don’t always write in rhyme so I can finally enjoy my pillow.

Running with Thoughts

I woke up this bright summer morn
As fresh and alive as a tiny newborn.
I tied up my shoes
Not even reading the news
Sure of the safety and my route, well worn.

My shoes kept a good rhythm and beat
As I glided down the smooth paved street.
I wasn’t even surprised
By the cars that whirred by
Drowning out the sound of my feet.

Then far land of Africa came to my mind
Pictures, dreams and questions all intertwined.
Can I do this over there?
Do I run? Do I dare?
Without these roads, smoothed and yellow-lined?

I know first of all it is strange
To see a white girl run through the range.
But must my habit there cease
For odd looks to decrease
Or will all of our attitudes change?

I don’t surmise to know every custom.
My intent for this trip isn’t to bust them.
I visit to share,
To love, play and care.
And to African ways, grow accustom.

Down the streets of Spokane I do go,
Alone with my thoughts and moving slow.
So with whom will I run,
A daughter or son
In Africa? I can’t wait to know.