ann dickinson

Write me poetry
as my mouth exhales,
as I shut my eyes and
drift away.

Let me know how it feels to lay
in a street that’s sound asleep.
Teach me the right way
to count,
count black sheep.
One, two, three
no, you cannot play with me.
Four, five, six
our team is already complete.
Seven, eight, nine
honey don’t mind them
they are just kids.

Voice your midnight prayers
your irrational fears
in my ear,
whenever the lord above doesn’t seem to hear.

Talk to me, love
does water taste sweeter
at three in the morning?
did the stars let you in
on a couple of their secrets?

Tell me all about that silver mistress
of yours.
Talk to me, love
about her romantic way of dressing night
in charm
just to win over your heart.

Sing to me
the melodies that
blurr your lonely
and put your thoughts at ease.

Play hide and seek with the rising dawn
as you wait
for the weariness to come.

Write me poetry as I dream.
Leave it on my bedside
along with a cup of coffee
and a kiss.
I promise one in return
as soon as the sun has gone back

to sleep.

—  “Lullaby from the early bird to the insomniac” by @ifellinlovewithwords
These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice… and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart.
—  Gilbert Highet