Agrypnia Risen - A Poem of Long Nights

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

Unspoken Thanks — A Poem of Father and Son

Unspoken Thanks


I grew up thinking life was ordinary—
country‑club weekends,
Cowboys games on Sundays,
backstage passes handed over like spare change.
Not wealth, not excess,
just the air we breathed
without knowing it was rare.

My father never said the word privilege.
He said be ready.
He said learn.
He said the world won’t always be kind,
and he made sure my mind
would be stronger than whatever came for us.

College prep at thirteen,
books stacked like stepping stones,
a quiet architecture of hope
he never named out loud.
Summer camps and private schools—
not for show,
but for building.
He didn’t talk about dreams.
He built foundations under my feet.
He said it was up to me,
to become what I will be.

And I didn’t always follow his lead.
Sometimes I rose.
Sometimes I fell.
Sometimes I walked straight into the fire
because I thought I knew better.
And more than once,
he pulled me out—
rescued me from myself
with a steadiness I assumed
every father carried.

I know better now.
Not all fathers do that.
Not all fathers stay.

I really should thank him for all of it.

Oh—
I already am.
In the quiet,
in the daily,
in the unspoken way
he taught me long before I understood.

All these years later,
roles reversed,
time having its say—
I find myself thanking him
in the only real way that matters.

Not speeches.
Not sentiment.
Not confessions.
Just presence.
Just care, and the giving.
Just the steady hands
that lift him the way he once lifted me—
as a child, physically,
as a man, in more ways than I can say. 

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved