Hypnagogia
My Personal Dungeon
Instantly my consciousness
Is shattered like a glass.
By its own power surge,
That has an endless flow of diesel, gas.
The oil fields that
Pump the crude
Of
Misery to my mind,
Will wither til its fruits are gone,
The drill is never kind.
So as I’m robbed of precious sleep
I toss and turn My pilly sheet
It steals from me that dreamy state,
The one my brain it seeks and makes.
Hypnagogia.
The barrier to sleep-not right
Deposit me
In the world of lucid-
Dreams and glowing lights
Then spit me back to truth.
I’ll see you again tonight
My friend
O’ wicked wraith of rest.
The Bucket Poem
The Antiquated observer
An ancient watcher.
Sitting upon its muddy throne. It has for eons, and will forever.
Once, it stood scarlet and new.
Now, the weathered protector, in its ripe age,
Sits sunken into the silty bottom of the once mighty creek.
The watcher does not remember how it arrived in its particularly solemn situation,
But it does know this is where it was meant to be.
It does not feel abandoned,
It has purpose: To watch.
Vermillion has shifted to flesh, the pink begins to fade too.
The watcher is observed as all color drains from its primeval body.
Mother nature wishes to invite the decrepit, yet faithful warrior into her sweet embrace
But she is not allowed the courtesy.
It will not allow her lapping, cordial waves to do anything but cement, no,
Sediment its very existence into the very marsh it has called home for as long as it can remember.
Long has it been since the ages of explorers.
Long has it been since the watcher has had anything to watch, yet it continues its
Long, and longer vigil.
Ages will pass until erosion completes its menial task.
It goes against the order of all things to deny nature.
The Earth mother is kind, and unrelenting.
The crumbling of the watcher is inevitable and
It fears the day its body will fail it,
for who will watch?
Who will uphold the observance? Surely its’ time was not wasted.
Surely the little boy will come back for his bucket.
Surely.
Ethan Buckingham is an aspiring poet currently in attendance at Assumption University in Worcester Massachusetts. Having been inspired by Gothic literature and romantic poetry, Ethan can often be found in some grassy field with a pencil and hand, and melody in mind.