Around Midnight

Around Midnight, poem by Glenn Michael Killey

Around Midnight


Around Midnight, The small house was now, thankfully, still.

The only light to be seen came from two small candles and a cheap desktop lamp.They serve our writer, each night, valiantly holding back the darkness, in this little home on the corner, where the writer cannot write.






Our writer, my friend, is a man of thoughts soon lost, glimpses and shadows of knowledge from The Elysian Fields, never quite rising high enough to grasp, choosing instead to hide like small children at play. Our writer longs for the words, the ability, the courage. Around Midnight, each night, he gets another chance.

And once again, as if those very same children, the thieves of his Faulkner moments, were in his charge, seemingly destined to help tell his story, and yet willfully disobedient. The elusive scoundrels, as if sensing his inspiration.....and desperation, begin to whisper a sad, slow song, and our writer is powerless to resist.

This very night however could be that night! the night he holds them back. The night that words flow like wine and time stops. It is after all just after Midnight and our writer is ready for battle.

But alas

Our writer who has so much to say, lays his not yet old fingertips on keyboard, and is often unequal to the task.

Around midnight though, are the times of hidden fortune, the times that favor a wayward spirit. Our writer is nothing more than a stubborn, true romantic, determined to tell his tale. A steadfast knight, sword in hand, refusing to believe that long ago the words had gone.
But words, like wives, and daughters, can not be gone forever.
Each evening, just around midnight, our writer finds his hope again. A broken soul that will not relent.

These nights have a thousand meanings, and more than one story. He often thinks about a story, the first story to tell, and then the one just after.
Around midnight.
He dreams of the possibilities. Possibility and Hope are the love affair the world has always waited for.

The night is a slow, sweet, tender, innocent kiss, caught for a moment in time, between two young lovers.
More powerful than kings, bishops, rooks, or knights in white satin. This one kiss should never be forgotten, and a lovers heart will never let it fade.

Alternately, around midnight, the demons wander. Quiet streets, quiet doorways. No watchful eyes. Dangerous, deceptive, wicked creatures roam the roads. Our writer chooses not to feed the dark wolf, the same cannot be said for so many others. Mighty are the self involved, righteous, judgmental souls that choose poison over love.
And yet? These barbarous souls hold no sway with our humble man.

Evil exposed can be defeated. Self righteousness, moral superiority, and willful ignorance play hide and seek in the shadows, often never revealing the game until their unsuspecting opponent no longer has the strength to go on.
But this man, our champion because we have no other, has brought his two candles, and he clings to his lamp. Our writer will keep the shadows at bay.

And in this home, on the corner, our writer counts his heartbeat, and lets these thoughts play, like dancing fairies, in his mind, at play in the fields of the gods.......around midnight, when all is still. Another bit of hope.

A black and white, scrawny and beautiful, awaits his return from the corner. A small reminder that love does indeed burn, even if temporarily forgotten during the onslaught of the day. Another bit of hope.

A thousand words sit on the tips of his fingers, a thousand more stand at the ready. The armies of wisdom, love, beauty, and betrayal are his alone to command.

Ready to fight for honor and poetry, our writer knows his greatest opponent. Her name is Mediocrity. She is a vile enemy in whose eyes great men lose hope and talent is destroyed by doubt. Nothing in life can crush a soul, shed a tear, or wither a poetic dream, like she can.
Hear me dear friend, she is a powerful force, and, for now, this night, like the countless pages in a lifetime full of forgotten calendars, she has him again, at her mercy and at her whim.

This age of ours, the do more, produce more, instant gratification lives we lead are the poets poison.

But we must leave it to our writer to find a way, and, although just barely down the path, Our writer ( For he is Our's, we will claim him and demand he say the words so few of us can. The words, locked in the souls of great men, who never knew.......)
Our writer knows one secret. He has seen one gem in the tall weeds. Perhaps on the back porch of a small town Iowa farm, where the fireflies danced at sundown, and, as a boy, he shared a coca cola with a beautiful woman.

Our writer understands with soul and grace and stillness, that mediocrity will never prevail. He knows in his heart that he has a weapon, just one, which she can never defeat........... tomorrow's.............. around midnight.

Tomorrow our writer will have his dreams renewed. Tomorrow the streets will quiet, and the lights will dim. The candles will be lit and the desk lamp will try once more. Tomorrow our writer will quest for the elusive words. The melancholy sentences. The palace among the snow covered peaks. The front yard with too many tricycles.

Tomorrow, there will always be another.......................around midnight, and hope is all this writer will ever need.

GK
12/22/2017