Notes From an Insomniac

This is an integration of the common psalm about time and the iOs notes from my iPhone( in italics). The time stamp matches up to the following note. A little bit of found poetry, if you will.

Notes From an Insomniac


To everything there is a season

A time (7:29 am Feb.1) for every purpose under the

sun just came up. I’ve been awake for almost 24 hours.

I have a  headache and I need a glass of  water. 

A time to be born

A time (1:43 am Mar.22) to die

I do not have an endless supply 

A time (12:30 am Mar.1) to plant                  

Shopping List

apples,milk,eggs,Chex,crasins, slaw mix

green onion,cilantro, avocado x2, limes

tomatoes,bananas,sale fruit

A time (11:36am) to pluck up what has been planted

Jan 11th- Feb. 11th $62.99 of $120 grocery budget

A time to kill

A time (4:54am Dec.14, 2:56am Nov.2) to heal

every day I will do something good for me. I will make myself healthier. 

drop off prescription @ CVS

A time (5:22pm Apr. 6) to weep

sadness, longing, disappointment

  A time (2:45am Nov.2) to laugh

I wish I was drunk

A time to mourn

A time (2:45am Nov.2) to dance

I wish I was drunk

A time (7:29am Feb.1) to embrace

I know I hate being apart

A time (2:45am Nov.2) to refrain

I wish I was drunk

A time to lose

A time ( 7:29am Feb.1) to seek

can be sought here. With me. With us

A time to rend

A time ( 8:00pm Mar.14) to sew

green top w/skirt and sandals

elephant dress and cardigan

A time (5:22pm Apr.8) to keep silent

I am too tired to push another conversation.

I just can’t talk to you.

A time to speak

A time (7:29am Feb.1) to love

I wonder if I love him more than he does me. I wonder if it matters.

Am I settling or just accepting 

that everyone does not love the same way?

A time ( 2:39am Nov.2) to hate

I wish I wrote to calm the demons in my head,

it seems to only stir them up

A time ( 2:18pm Dec.29) for war

“The sun beats lightning on the waves,

Waves fold thunder on the sand.

The  Bottom of the sea is cruel” – Hart Crane

A time( 7:29am Feb.1) for peace

and to sleep. But my mind is not ready yet.


Song for the Pumpkins

Song for the Pumpkins

We could pretend that the word prosaic

is a portmanteau of prose and mosaic–

a series of broken stories arranged just so

     to make art.

But I confess I do not find the way

you leave the bathroom

splattered in beard-hair

after your weekly shave

–as if your razors were a machine gun scatting bullets–

particularly arresting.

Nor do I find your habit of chewing-gum,

thrashing, and snoring,

usually at the same time, usually as soon as I fall asleep,


I reach over to shake you awake as if breaking you

from a seizure.

Awake, I don’t tell you that I dreamt I knew

what love was,

that it’s when you want everyone else to think

you’re a decent human being,

except for that one person who knows

you’re terrible and great,

who knows that you are King David

with his harp and his murder.

That made me worry.

But this is a song for the pumpkins,

and not for anxiety,

because they deserve recognition,

each a small, bumpy world for the aphids.

This is a song for the pumpkins you made

by tilling the earth and laughing,

despite the floods, the weeds, the sun.

This is a song

for the pumpkins, growing under your care

not breaking, or dreaming, or turning into shrapnel.

At night, I swear I can hear them breathing.

Where’s my Participation Trophy?

This is my first post here. Apologies for being late to the party. Actually the theme for the month struck home to me. There are plenty of times that I wonder what I’m doing with my life. Why aren’t I more accomplished? After all, I’m a millennial. I’m alive, and I showed up. So…

Where is My Participation Trophy?

I have created nothing.
I lie to myself, but know I’m bluffing

Watch years down to seconds flow by in slow succession.
Blank pages and canvas beg for answers to questions
I’d answer if effort didn’t cause indigestion.
Inactive or active, un-honed skills cause depression.
And the need I don’t feed, in the blood an infection
that must be drawn out. I must leave an impression.

But I have created nothing.
The ideas just trickle. No more are they gushing.

There are stories still trapped, still stuck in my head,
And stories I loved years ago my dad read,
There’s no one I read to, tucked into bed
rapt at attention, little smiles that spread
at the worlds wonders, till to dreams they are led.
The end of my traditions, and stillborn new ones I dread.

I have finished nothing
and have no children forthcoming.

I am writing a novel that came to me in a dream
sixteen years and four drafts ago. God did it cream
my tiny ten year old brain. Knocked it flat as it teemed
with a thousand ideas, now all torn at the seams.
Useless now? Or still tinder? Strike at flint. Will it gleam?
Though it’s slow sweat and effort, hope is building up steam.

One day will I read it to my children?
Its my story to tell, only my will to bend.

Ignorant Illusions

Ignorant illusions
fall on the hot cement like an empty bottle
breaking into a thousand pieces
shining in the neon lights
pretty pictures catch flame
and burn quickly
releasing acrid smoke into the moonless sky
leaving nothing but memories
stained by ignorance

by Nathan Lowery

Nate is also an accomplished musician. Click here to see some of his work.

Broken Glass

This is the first poem I’ve ever really shared, and the first I’ve written in years.  Context: my mother underwent surgery last week.  Nothing major, and she’s fine now, but this poem came about largely as a result of my frustration at being unable to be with her (my parents live in California).


Broken Glass

I’m standing here looking at broken glass
I mean the kind of broken glass that never wanted to hurt anyone
it’s big, big pieces and it’s easy to avoid and really
it doesn’t want to cut anyone
it just wants to be left alone or maybe even be put back together
but mostly it just doesn’t want to be
in the way.
You could put it back together and it wouldn’t be any safer
it wouldn’t be any more or less likely to hurt somebody because
it’d still be broken glass only now it’s with duct tape or glue or just
stuffed inside a big plastic sack.
You could pick up the pieces after you dropped it
and sweep it all up and fit it back together
and you’d never get it right
but you can’t stop trying, either,
because you’re the fuckwit that broke it in the first place.

And I’m standing here looking at this glass
and I can’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe
bodies don’t need glue, they just need time,
or maybe love
but love heals souls I don’t know if it heals bodies.
Time, time heals bodies and
time also tears bodies apart,
age and wear and tear and
love and hate and wisdom and folly
and all those little cracks
in the psyche, in the brain, in the body
they get a little bit wider.
Cracks that run deep, deep enough to run
from outside in or inside out
and split you in two, in three,
in a fucking hospital bed
where you can’t even tell you were ever alive
and all you know is pain and death and brokenness.

And I’m standing here looking at this glass
and I can’t stop thinking about my mom.
I’m starting to see the cracks and I know
it’s gonna split her in two
and no amount of love or glue or time
is gonna make that better.
Your body breaks down you get a new one, right?

And I hear them telling me it’s all right
routine procedure
better now than later
better late than never
better wait outside now
better just stay where you are
no need to come visit
I’ll be okay, son, I’ll be okay.
My dad’s got these lines,
these cracks in his forehead
and his eyes and his hands
and he looks like he’s been patched up too many times already
but nothing could have prepared him to watch his wife go under.

Time heals all wounds until it doesn’t.

And I’m standing here looking at this broken glass
and I keep thinking I can put it back together
and make it work
and give it a purpose.
But now I’ve just got glue on my bloody hands
and I can’t tell if it’s my blood or hers.

But somebody’s singing something
so beautiful that it helps me breathe again,
starts to fill in those cracks and I remember
how young I am,
and how ashamed I should be to cry
over the loss of something
that was never mine to begin with.
Somebody’s singing something
so beautiful,
and if it isn’t her voice I’m hearing
then it damn well better not be mine.