Poetic madness

Madness to be farting around writing poems at this time of night when I should be sleeping. Trying to concentrate, drunk with fatigue (Wilfred Owen), rattled by Eddie's snores, huddled in my parka, slitty eyes barely conscious of the screen. Has been a long day. It's 1.30am – what am I doing? Waffling needlessly. Drifting in and out of comprehension. Sucked into the relentless blog cult.

To bed, to bed...please. Here's the poem – untitled on the theme of hope:

The expectation is there.

Sparks shoot from finger-tips.
Loose tongues and excitable lips, moist
with anticipation, form
an idea, which germinates,
translates, which transcends translation and
winds up igniting dark corners.

The hope is there
that this time will be different, will
make a difference, will
warn us against the pitfalls of
closed minds, closed eyes, blind.

The hope is there
that it won't miss the mark, this time, to
slide unnoticed, un-understood
into the carpet until
there is nothing there,

nothing,
but the faintest
glimmer.