Night Mites

I’m sitting alone in my easy chair

And the lights are turned down low,

Listening to the midnight hour

As it chimes, so long and slow,

There’s a sudden whirr as the hammer lifts

And a click before it strikes,

A startling boom from the brazen bell

That echoes throughout the night.

 

The page of my Daily Journal lies

Unwritten upon my desk,

I’d meant to write something infernal

But my thoughts had been burlesque,

I hear the whispers of tiny folk

Who laugh, perform and rage,

All hanging about in the darkness

As they try to get on my page.

 

There’s Pixies, Elves and Trolls unseen

And a couple of monsters too,

And there in the background stands the Queen

Of the Kingdom known as Loo,

The Dwarf of the Seven Rings is there

And the Land that Time Forgot,

And a flower girl from Trafalgar Square

With a bunch of forget-me-nots.

 

I wave my hand and they disappear,

Go grumbling off to tea,

I haven’t a use for them tonight

And it all depends on me,

I’d rather look for a murderer,

Or a villain, up for the chop,

As the hangman carries his length of rope

While calculating the drop.

 

There’s such a babble of voices in

My head, I can barely think,

My pen has leaked in a giant blot,

I reckon it’s out of ink,

A bride climbs up and she claims the page

And she drags the groom on board,

The only preacher I see out there

Is a Cardinal with a sword.

 

A train steams down in the valley

Puffing smoke rings up at the moon,

I cross the Cardinal off the page

And then get rid of the groom,

I take the bride on a fearsome ride

Through the Valley of Discontent,

While she sits glum by the window, says:

‘Is this what you really meant?’

 

‘Who knows,’ I said, ‘I’m only the scribe

That sits here holding the pen,

You people come from an alien tribe,

Far from the world of men.

You saturate my horizons and

You fill my eyes with tears,

You live on the border of every page

And have, for a thousand years.’

 

The clock struck one and I fell asleep,

Was slumbering in my chair,

You tried to wake me up from a dream

With curlers in your hair.

I woke with ink on my fingers as

The pen crept over the page,

And read the words it had written there,

A poem, fit for a sage!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Michaił Łaszn..]

David, this was just a fantastic read and journey as well. Very creative, well written, and entertaining with each and every line. Love your writing! It's great how you can cut loose and write like this with such ease, incorporating such a vast array of characters and activities into your story poetry. Very nice, indeed.

[Patricia B. Hepler]

Excellent. Just purely excellent.
~pat

[Sheila Kline]

The clock strikes, the lights dim, and the world becomes quiet except in the mind of the poet whose imagination and creativity bring another realm alive as the elves and trolls go about their merry way! It seems at certain times it is this way when one writes. Music is the land of magical kingdoms for me as there are occasions when I put on a particular piece of music and it seems as if the notes of the music do the writing for me!
Another entertaining and wonderful write!!

[A Soap Mess Stories]

As usual another great story.

[A.r. Bazian]

sometimes i feel i shouldn't write anything here!
nothing to say!
you are a master of poetry and rhyme!
and of thoughts too, and mystery, imagination, and crime!
you never seize to amaze me!

[Siren]

Wonderful! In my experience, there's a certain freedom in writing from the subconscious. Not from a torrent of emotion, but from a well deep within the soul. It allows me to let words flow where I thought I had none, although the words can be the most frightening and the most beautiful that I read. Definitely enjoyed this.

[Brett Michael Wagner]

I love this. How many nights I have sat up trying to capture a piece of my imagination on page. I feel we writers have a whole other world living in our heads, and sometimes we are fortunate enough to find a voice for our stories and emotions. Very well written; I enjoyed the poem's flow. Thanks for sharing.

[Mark]

Finally! I knew there had to be some reasonable explanation for your profligacy, apart from sheer talent: the wee folk, beneficent and horrific, indwell your hand and offer their nightmares to and through your fingers!

[Marie]

Sometimes it just happens--like "The Elves and the Shoemaker". Bless all the miniature muses...

[spiritwind]

This one has so much power it overflows with it.
Your imagination ranges far and wide to feed that pen
you do the work and we reap the benefit!