The Caregiver, Uncounted — A Poem

 

---

The Caregiver, Uncounted

We live in the shade.
We live in the quiet.
We live in the mundane and rarely eventful —
or so it appears to those outside,
witnessed from a distance, not within.
Distance is the qualifier of our lives.

Isolated, forgotten, ignored.
Discreetly, with no ill‑intention.
Simply there, unconsidered.

What they do not see, we still must carry.
What they do not hear, we still must feel.

The noise no one else hears.
The sound no one else notices.
The sleepless hours no one counts.
The pain beneath our words no one heeds —
not even ourselves, at times.

We, who speak in absolutes,
are minimized by those who trivialize and amplify.
We do not exaggerate. We do not inflate.
But to the daily embellishers,
we look the same.
Those outside never hear the truths of inside.

We are haunted behind our eyes,
carrying the reality of our daily lives.

Only the indispensable sleep lightly.
Peace of mind is a luxury of the unburdened.

This is the price of that imagined quiet,
paid by those who cannot look away,
and cannot make a stranger of one who was once beloved,
and, oftentimes, still is — a stranger, though they may now be.

Copyright April 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

The Professional Malcontent — A Poem

 

The Professional Malcontent

The professional malcontent,
always sneering at creations they have not conceived,
at that which they have not themselves wrought,
purposefully ignorant of their own insufficiencies and “good enoughs.”
They find fault with everything and anything when others are the ones who are doing.
They are ill content with what they do not control.
If five people say yes, they will be the one to say no.

They will add a dash of salt to a pot of stew,
as if that would change the flavor or the chemistry,
hours in, after the real work is done,
and then claim part ownership of it all,
a success claimed with theatrical flourish.

Undaunted in their own private geometry,
they are oblivious to the shallowness of their own depths.
Even the abstract eludes them,
for they would not have done it that way.
Their self‑worth is defined by the perceived failures of others,
and the imagined successes of their own redesigns—
usually flavorless, colorless alterations.

It is the self‑interest of the uninteresting,
inventing flaws where none exist,
so they may stand inside the substantive,
a territory they cannot recognize.
They do not create; they criticize.

The perfection, or adequacy, they demand of others
they never require from themselves.

The distasteful aroma only they can smell
comes not from the stew, but from within themselves.
They call out flaws and imperfections only they perceive,
while others offer praise and share in camaraderie—
giving credit where it is due,
where it is owed,
and sometimes grudgingly to the “me too”
with an eye‑roll cast from behind.
It is nothing more than the half‑penny arcade of the mind.

The professional malcontent clutches that coin tight,
held in both hands against their heaving breast,
not knowing it has no real value—
nothing more than a token written on parchment.
They are content…
only when they are not.

Copyright March 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Agrypnia Risen - A Poem of Long Nights

---

Agrypnia Risen

The night flows, slow.
The chiming bell tolls,
counted one by one, by number.
Sleep deprives,
insomnious behind the eyes.

What remains of you is not enough—
not to sustain, nor to engage,
not to rise to the many chores left behind,
and no boredom enough to send you into sleep.

And even though the bed calls, insistently,
and even though the pillow whispers, enticingly,
the wakefulness, unrelenting,
holds dominion over all.

---

The weariness of the mind—
weighed, measured, heavy—
shoulders hunched,
neck bent,
head drooping,
feet dragging as if underground,
bare foot burning against the carpet,
woodgrain eating away at the sole,
as if you had offended gravity in some way,
and all the surfaces are resentful of your persistence.

Darkness, smothering.
Breathless, apnea.
Disturbed.
Even the palest of light, blinding.
Like neon flashing, erratically, unnervingly—
the world too bright and too dimly lit at once,
the eye unsure of what it perceives,
even when obstructed, on purpose.

It is the mind’s revolt
against the body’s decry—
the inseparable, separated,
both willingly, it seems.

The betrayal of self.

---

Another long day, arrived,
another long night, unrequited,
leaving little left of the sleepless
except for the shell.

The shell remains,
sustaining itself upon nothing but the brumes,
until night comes again, and you try again,
and succeed, finally—
unconsciousness descends,
perhaps unknowingly.

---

And when you awake,
you’ll often find
it was not enough —
not nearly enough —
not sufficient for the day,
nor remitment for last night.
Sleep’s payment does not always compensate.

Still, you promise that tonight
will offer another chance,
and you will claim the early hours,
seeking addition to the recompense.

Unless, of course, the night flows slow,
and the chiming bell still tolls
in that same counted way… again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

---

Copyright February 2026 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved