Sleeping with Gnomes

A song, a poem, or prose, it has no purposeful identity

Harry Hogg
3 min readNov 2, 2023
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Take me to the docks, to cargo boats coming from the other side of the world, laden with poems, rhymes, and other wandering ideas. Bring me their peppery scent from unknown countries where summers are eternal and we live naked on beaches.

Take me from these Scottish Isles lived under the northern sky. Let me wash off this gray by sailing away from this misery to where it will be less painful in the sun. Sit in bars till midnight, sing with other sailors and talk to bikini-clad girls about making love.

A beautiful day on a sea-bound yacht, where nothing matters bow to stern. To distant islands where languid girls delight in what they’ve got. Flower necklaces, drinks to intoxicate, without baggage and a freed heart. Take me away from misery where the end of the world will wait.

I’ve been to foreign cities, to Paris, to San Francisco, and in both places, made love. One the home of Piaf, the other Jack London, and so many other cities I’ve flown above. Shadows on the road, dancing, weaving, like a crazy fool. A young poet running toward a night-time rendezvous.

But what about the snow falling up against the doorway, the memories falling twice as fast, the times caught up in blizzards? That really was a blast. Those were the times I thought of you; with snow chains on my back, I tied them to your wheels and pulled you back on track.

I have no need of bronze-bellied women, shaded from the sun. I must get back to the island, gray skies, snow, and fishermen having fun. The island is my home, where I wrote some happy songs, drank the beer, and late at night would wander back to sleep beside the gnomes.

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