Somehow, we’ve only got a week left of poeming. So let it begin.
For today’s prompt, write a morning poem. The poem can be about the morning, take place during the morning, or however you want to work the morning in.
Here’s my attempt:
“I Never Hear the Alarm”
Always a hand on my shoulder
and a whisper, my dreams dissolve
as I search for the voice calling
me into the world, a voice
softer than feathers moved by breath
released from a sleeping baby,
so I might find it on her lips
and bury it with my kisses.
*****
…with the Publish Your Poetry bundle that is discounted at less than $30!
Not enough
Coffee dregs
In the world
Can prepare me
For the harshness
The morning
Brings
Morning Thermal
Wing flash
Blue to blue
Sky
Feather
Merge to
Dance in
Still air from
Cliff to sky
Feathers dance in
Rising air
Morning flight
To fly
Soar away
To cast
To blue sea
wing
Prayer for my Final Morning
Morning comes once more
like so many before it but
I cannot count how many
since my first dawn, the one
I cannot recall nor are any
left alive who do remember
that morning of my birth.
And when my last morning
arrives, will I recognize it as
my final one or squander it
the way I’ve wasted others
down the years? Lord I pray
the sun, igniting firmament,
ignites my spirit on that day.
To-Morrow’s Yesterday
I will regret you then, when I wake early.
Before dawn creeps in and her ray’s pierce
my eyes, shut tight against her violation.
I will regret you then, when I read and reread
the words which seduced me into your arms,
into your bed. I will regret you then.
Each moment before I wake, cherished,
because I’ll have no memory of you then.
Dawn
Before anything
but the dawn
another chance
to make it right
another path
to work out
knowing that I’m not
alone.
It’s a new day
to make it
our way.
Morning.
I ask you to wake up just before me
and slowly whisper love with your thumb
stroke across my doughy cheek,
then bottle that moment where I forget
it’s not only you in the world.
I forgot to post this after I wrote it. I think sometimers is setting in!
Morning
The best part of the day
before phone calls, demands,
appointments, gobble the hours.
April 23,2012
A “Morning” Poem
Morning Mist
Again I missed
the morning mist,
the creeping seep
of silent glow
that drowns my sleep,
Yet I know
Within my deepest deep
of dreams unhindered,
night folded tight
As morning rendered
a promised hint
a burnished glint
of wings of birds in flight.
They rise in the morning,
My heart soars at night
in dim lamplight
as I write.
Beginnings
Each morning
starting 4 am
songbirds visit
our lesser yard
of paradise.
before we begin
the day we let
the chorus
begin to lift
us up where
we’ve never been.
And they begin to
sing our days all
the way to morning.
Go Away, Sandman
==============
Of all things overrated, sleep ranks first;
A vile distraction, robbing me of time
That’s better spent on yet another burst
Of energy towards some fine design,
And never do I dream of longer nights
Lest they be spent on worthy goals indeed,
Like study of the flashing Northern Lights,
Or meditating on a noble creed.
But still extol so many of my peers
The virtue of a long, unbroken rest,
So often, I must contemplate the fear
That the advice is spoken out of jest.
For don’t they know the night-time’s true delight
May be enjoyed at noon as well as night?
I combined Day 23 and 24 since the morning poem was a love poem.
Never the Same
Morning will never be the same
without you next to me –
the sound of your breathing,
my small space in the double bed,
your toussled hair, sleepy-eyed smile –
warm, soft, hard.
Mornings are a lonely place
without you to share coffee and the paper.
There is no kiss to send me off,
no late nights under the stars.
Just me, cats and a movie.
I still don’t get enough sleep,
am afraid of my dreams
because you are there
in the place I never want to leave.
It’s the only way I can be with you
since I made the decision to go.
We would have made it
if you were not you and I were not me.
Oh, how I still love you, two years later.
I finally begin to write
and to cry all over again.
If only it could always be the beginning,
never the end.
Day 22 got away from me, so I’ll read what I can. First, Robert. Today’s poem is wonderful, and gave me a peaceful feeling. Love it.
Morning
quiet, quiet, lovely quiet,
the peaceful oasis of coffee and hope.
only then can I choose the sounds I wish to hear;
only then deny the possibility of chaos.
as the day moves on other things intrude;
the outside world elbows in,
but mornings are the awe time,
just God and me and peace.
This Morning
This morning was a struggle with myself as I ignored
the alarm every ten minutes until an hour has passed.
This morning was the most perfect Marian blue
as I remembered to say my morning prayer
before I brushed my teeth. There were no contrails
to shatter its vastness the way there are no cracks
to ruin a perfectly new set of fine china. To my left,
there is a fading imprint of the moon as if someone left
behind a sliver of a fingernail when brushing off
so much dust of stars. Did someone expect a special guest
arriving today? The American flag is now billowing
and wrestling with itself in the southern wind over
the tollway bridge as if it too was rushing to iron
its work clothes before starting another long Monday.
This morning, the world did not spin
like how it is now, persistently, dizzyingly
and even I could not stop it–
this vertigo,
a crescendo breaking
every form of thought.
Notes: A terrible vertigo left me debilitated yesterday, and so I was able to finish this poem today. Thank goodness! I hope I would never have to experience that sensation again!
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/145929.html
Spring Mornings
By
Arrvada
There’s a whisper, a sigh
As the world slowly wakes
The trees rustle and stretch
The birds flutter and wake
The sounds of morning
Of spring fill the air
The soft melody of birds swell
Soft twitters and hums
Chirps and trills
Lift and sing
Spinning out onto the winds of spring
Morning sighs and grows
Warmed and eased by the gentle sun
Skies of blue open wide
The clouds are lazy in the sky
I wake and listen to the world
And smile
Grateful I’m alive
Let Morning Come
(Inspired by Jane Kenyon’s: Let Evening Come)
Let Morning come,
as I trade in the elusiveness of dreams
for tables and chairs grouped
by domesticity’s hands.
Let fingers of light
linger on the nightstand
like the lover’s desire
that their prints will
brand the hour.
Let the intelligibility
of the boxer and twin turtles
speak through their morning stretch.
Let hungry bellies in every room
be jellied by a spoon of day.
Let dew moisten the lip
of the gardener
attending his morning glories.
Let colorful ideas emerge
like Easter eggs, hidden
for the point of being found.
MORNING
First things first–does she even want get up?
Why did she stay up until 2:30 a m reading
Stephen King’s Talisman?
Because it’s a great book? Yeah.
She hears a knock on her bedroom door.
Could it be her lover, swathed in steam
from the coffee he brings to her bed?
The knock is more insistent now. She rises.
Two pair of brown eyes, beaming with love,
greet her as she opens the door. Do they
accuse her, whine, or display resentment
like a dark cloud covering her morning?
No, only love is there as her hands and
feet are covered with kisses.
If only they could make coffee.
Morning Whispers
The moon has begun to fade,
But the sun’s not quite awake.
The morning fog leaves kisses
On leaves of trees; blades of grass,
And as birds sing in the dawn,
My dreams whisper their good-byes.
Caren E. Salas
Mourning Morning
Morning died
At the stroke of Noon.
She gathered her soft breezes
And tried to flee
Back toward the light of Dawn.
But the cruel meridian sun
Cut her down
With a blade of light
That shriveled grass
And seared the dew-jeweled flowers.
Really love the metaphor. Beautiful poem!
Unique use of the prompt. Love those first two lines.
Wonderful use of words and imagery!
This Morning’s a Poem
This mornings’ a poem
when cool breezes stir
buds on trees
and desires for something more.
I awaken to the call of eternity
shadows of blue skies
the sun at the horizon
and whispers of promises
in March
cool days
to dream
a measure of spring
to awaken
when warm days
bring May
songs of fruition
the sun overhead
enlightenment of blue skies
timeless season
pleasures and joy
leaves on trees
when warm breezes call
for an afternoon verse.
“I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon!”
~ Gerard Manly Hopkins, “The Windover: To Christ our Lord”
MORNING AND EVENING, THE FIRST DAY
Yesterday evening, before I went to sleep,
I watched the Mama House Finch and her husband
stuff food into the open beaks of their three babies
snug in their nest under my roof—
and my heart was touched with the awareness
that there is a God.
Jane Beal
Day 23 – a morning poem
Today began as a palette
of greys, gently drenched
the paving bricks, their cream
darkening to mustard. Ants
so frantic these past days
nowhere to be seen,
bunkered. A lone dreamy
green long-tailed parrot
sang a sorry song, swinging
on thin branches where
Little Ragged Blossom’s
skirts hung bedraggled.
Pigeons and blackbirds
took advantage of the absence
of cats, fossicking through
straw mulch and gravel.
I knew it was morning
only because of the light -
the sun must have been
somewhere up there
creating a glorious golden
dawn on the upper side of
the planet’s fat cloudy quilt.
I heard the aeroplane overhead,
knew the people in it would
shade their eyes against
the brilliant blinding rays,
while I turned on lights and
central heating, remembered
my last tropical holiday.
So Long Geelong, Thee VB Ode Memories
Waking up in Tin Can Alley
overlooking Metal Valley
I wondered where we were
the previous night a blur
Angry had a bruised head
Bonzo was painted red
Elle’s hair was all a mess
Cathy looked like Queen Bess
I was lying across the yard
like an outdated discard
then Cathy recounted the night before
how we’d all danced around the floor
after meeting a fine Victorian beer
VB was our friend for life but not without fear
for it could taste so delicious on a hot day
that your mind and body would lose their way.
In the twilight of my youth
walking alone
through a field
dreaming of the newness
of spring
with a too, too careful
stepping
over fallen branches
crooked in the twistings
of life
the harsh rustling of
undergrowth
under each of my
well intentioned
steps
a faltering stumbling from
darkness
into bright dawning sun
glistening dew
her calling
my name
from the distance
blond hair
shouldering
the morning
haloed
in rising
light
As sure as Night Follows Day
Dawns follow each other
Mornings offer myriad dreams
What will be your choice?
“A Valediction Forbidding Morning”
Ask not for whom the alarm clock tolls,
it tolls for thee. Morning has not been forbade
and again approaches swiftly like a flea
intent to steal our blood, mixing it into one.
Batter my heart with caffeine, so none will die.
Are you all donne? no protractor with a sun?
Ha ha and bravo!
Actually that comment was meant for the poem, but could also apply to your witticism.
(Sijo)
Starting the day with the shrill sound of a truck backing up,
I reach over to slap the alarm clock, snuggle deeper under
the covers, and recover from the rude awakening.
First Light in Paradise
On Koh Ph’angan, the thatched huts
near the water stand on stilts where
piglets and dogs, cats and reptiles graze
beneath, snuffling at the shutters,
foraging for food into the night.
In the cove, the lap of nocturnal waves
massage my sleeping mind beneath
a mosquito net; a new arrival in paradise,
I dream of sun and butterflies that float
down to the beach from the rocky hillside
like autumn leaves descending.
And it is good.
Horrible shrieks catapult me from dreams,
throaty hellish scraping cries raise the hair
on my skin, my heart pounding in my dry
throat, as horror stalks the jungle, as nightmares
walk in paradise. I rise and step out into
the dark, the horizon pale gray with light,
to face my fate.
But there is nothing wrong in paradise.
It is day, that is all. The same monkeys
that sit murmuring in the trees by day, roosting
like birds, greet each day with their full voice,
joined by dogs, pigs, peacocks and hens, all
creatures capable of sound, all shriek at once
to see the light.
It is morning of my first day in the jungle,
and Eden is on my mind. Was God, after
making this noisy life, raised from Sabbath
rest, his great heart pounding, by his creatures
praising breaking dawn? Does He, as I,
awake each day in terror and delight,
to joyful noises rolling back the night?
And is it good?
THE AFTERMATH
I squint my eyes
at the harsh light
of eleven forty-five
on a weekday,
collect my strewn limbs
from the four corners
of the bed,
and unfurl the sheets
to the new day’s truth:
I played hard to get
but you’re easy to lose.
Once my toes smack
the carpet, I know
there’s no turning back,
curled here
in the noise of noon’s
soon approach,
I tremble, fearing the tears
that no longer flow:
I played hard to get
but you almost let me go.
The wreckage sits heavy
in these bags
under my eyes,
the morning toasted
my cold night’s sweat
to a boiling glow,
I clutch at me, the sheets,
and all there is to hold:
I played hard to get
but you almost closed the door.
The minutes of the day
tick away with regret,
and I wake,
finding more than
the muted sunshine
will show,
Last night we rowed
through storm and flood,
I played hard to get you
but you never played at all.
Color calling
Mauve shifting into
Yellow and pink,
Slashes of purple
Skimming across the sky
Tugging toward day
Get up! Get up!
The colors sing
Awakening heart
And soul
To the beauty
Of God’s array.
Wake Up Call
I don’t want to live in a glass case,
Frozen in time like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty
In their Happily Ever After waiting for the elusive
Morning when they celebrate the beginning
Of the end of all they are.
Life without the pain is a seed without a sun
To ever force the shoot to break the skin
And reach for something more
Than what it contains.
I care less for the damsel
And what I’m going to wear to the ball
Or whether my invitation got lost in the mail.
What is in distress, slipping through my fingers,
Is life in all its messy fallen glory; the nebulous
Beauty of pain eased by the kiss of broken lips.
So don’t tell me fairy tales devoid of blood and tears.
I’d rather meet my Happily Ever After on the muddy
Battlefields of mistakes, regrets, and second chances
Where I can learn to love you and myself without restraint.
driving east to work
from behind a cloud the sun
pops into my eyes
Linda Voit
I wake before the alarm
most mornings
and lie still
listening for the birds
in the pre-dawn moments
I stand at the kitchen window
waiting as the smell of coffee
takes over the kitchen
watching the light
take over the yard
and day begins
yay! for your poem – not so much for the dawn that is sneaking in….
thank you lol – I was not so pleased with this. Guess I should have written it in the morning when I was not so tired!
(morning)
stretched across sheets
fresh from dawn’s cool breeze
honey sweet sunshine drips off her fingertips
warblers sing between the blinds
buttercream pools beckon from the rug
but his gravity pulls her back into his
dark milky way, and she
is lost to the morning
wake up…every morning
wake up every day to live the way
and give it all not to fall but stay
on top of it all and answer the call
that won’t stop. such an advancer
and you won’t drop the ball but
be true to who your dreams call
you to be. when it seems you might
fall don’t quit but fight and don‘t
sit but heed the warning. feed on the
good as you should every morning.
By Michael Grove
Morning Rendezvous
Meet me in the morning
on the first Monday in May,
wear your Sunday suit
and I’ll wear that dress.
Meet me on that morning
at our favorite restaurant
rain or shine, we’ll sit outside
in the rooftop garden
at a table amid the lilacs
the color of my dress.
Meet me on the first Monday in May
early morning
before the city awakes,
we’ll drink a toast to the new day
with orange juice champagne
in rose colored glasses.
Meet me on the first Monday in May,
don’t be late.
Wear your Sunday suit,
I’ll wear that dress,
We’ll breakfast on bagels with cream cheese
while we plan our next rendezvous
in the morning.
A rainy morning turns bright
After lumbering through the bedroom doorway
at 6am, I notice a faint glow coming from
the office that is not the pale blue of the
laptop in sleep mode, or the cellphone’s
steady glare over a missed text message or a
call. It is brighter, yet contained to one
area. The manifestation of a body, a face -
long, dusky hair cascading around the outline.
There is no wind, no harps or angelic choirs.
I inhale deeply and continue towards her,
stay focused on her face and the sincerity of
her gaze before I whisper, “Blair.” She gives
a warm grin and clearly replies, “Good morning.
I do hope that this gray morning finds you well.”
I am fixated on the shape of her mouth and the
way her eyes seem so alive, so impassioned.
The rain continues its steady, insistent pace
on an unusually blustery April morning. She tilts
her head to my stare. “Much better now,” I say.
Morning Has Broken
Little sweet Hannah,
drawn to the hymns, requests to
hear Morning’s Apart.
My Morning Ritual
The ritual starts the same way:
My first thoughts
are always scrambled:
part disappearing dream,
part beeping alarm clock,
and part soundtrack
to whatever tv show
is playing on the set
that was left on
as a lazy night light.
I hear the tip-tip-tip
of Yorkie claws scratching
on the laminate floor
as Sadie the cat
drags her paw
across our closed bedroom door,
and makes
a slow, torturous scrape,
her mute petition
for admission.
The dogs want out
and the cat wants in,
I’m barely awake
and I’m already playing
zookeeper.
I escort the dogs
out to the backyard
and I breathe in the
sweet and sharp
cold morning.
God hears
my silent prayers
of gratitude,
and my mind scans
the coming day:
it thinks in terms of
appointment blocks
in Microsoft Outlook.
I ask
“please help me be
a good man, and
please watch over
my wife and children
and bring them all
home
safely.”
I dwell in this
quiet and slow moment,
until clarity materializes.
Then, the barking begins
shallow and soft,
ruff-ruff
ruff
then louder
yike-yike-yike!
which signals the
end of my morning
ritual.
“…until clarity materializes”. I really wish that quiet and slow moment would last just a little bit longer! Love the images!
Morning Time
Waking up to a bird, or a muffled lawn mower,
Hearing Gary leave softly for his 5:30 run -
In certain shoes, then back out at 6:20,
In prosecutor shoes with a more rapid,
Italian-type whisper on the walkway.
The laziness of the fountain bubbling into morning.
The fire department, 8 blocks away readying sirens,
The light breeze from the Pacific blows in -
Salty and wet.
Sun smiles in window
Pull snuggy blankets up tight
Too cold to get up
Of Service
The dog barks even before
his alarm clock tells him
that he has been blessed
with yet another morning.
Still stuck in the imaginary
plane between two worlds
he stumbles out and down in
service to a canine who in
fact does dictate so many
aspects of his existence.
At fifteen, the dog is far too old
to be re-trained properly or be
expected to change his ways
so he has had to change his
ways in recent years. He just
give thanks each morning that
he is still there with him and
appreciates their waning time
together. Filling his food and
water while he is outside he may
ponder why he still skips breakfast
at times to leave his companionship
and rush out into a world where
he may be of service to others.
By Michael Grove
A Fan of Morning
Like Eleanor Rigby I should perhaps
Keep my face in a jar by the door
But have taken to tucking it
Carefully folded, beneath my pillow
Like a geisha’s fan with pleats knife-sharp
Each morning once shaken open
It displays itself with the same consistency
Of a hand-painted faded creased novelty
The only caution I need to remember
Is how easily this faux face disassembles
Itself, crumples inward, disappears again
Swallowing smiles, tears, and being
In equal measure – waving bye bye bye
Dew on spider webs
proclaim a day to weave wonder
pick flower, pick up pen
Dew on spider webs
sparkling prisms, radiant light
day starts with rainbows
This morning
at 7:45
all I wanted
was a cup
for my drug
of choice
to get me
fully awake.
I opened
the door
stepped into
the kitchen
and something
on the floor
something in
Pern’s bowl
something there
caught my eye.
Little legs
slightly moving
making not
a squeak
the mouse
floated
awaiting its
rescue
but not
from me.
April 23, 2012 – Day 23
Write a morning poem
Morning to Mourning?
When light pushes
through the blinds
softly announcing
a new day, I wonder
if–on this innocent
babe of a sunshine day,
wrapped in swaddling
sky of blue dreams–
this can be the day
mourning will roll
into clouds and I will
be told, my friend
has passed away
during the night?
Morning Now
Morning now is different,
and waking up unwelcome.
The cats still have the same habits,
but no-one now pats the bed
to entice Levi up for a cuddle
when he mews at 5 am for food.
I don’t have to give the insulin,
take the blood sugar,
fetch the tablets …
And there is no-one
to snuggle back down with,
to read with, to eat with. Hard
to get used to using
the one-cup coffee plunger.
“… Every Morning Without You”
Bird song rising
Perception building
Soul awakening
Muscles flexing
Mind racing
Subconscious cataloging
What is to come
Skin realizing
Touches are only phantom wisps
Mouth distracted from yawning
Lips slowly realizing
The kiss is just an apparition
Passion just hallucinatory nuances
Of what is wanted
As heart is breaking
Reality pales in comparison
To dreams
A Night Editor’s Morning Journal
Hey, there is just so much
I’ve got to keep up with:
It’s harder when the sky is bright
yellow at the start
of each day
and Miss Ellie’s lawn man is long ago
done with the April roses,
the whir of his weed-whacker already
snicking along the sidewalk
and the six damn messages already
on the phone
from Tim, the day me.
1A has changed twice already, alright,
and the noon meeting is at four
cuz someone in Constantine shot her daddy
just after lunch.
I used to crave McDonald’s breakfast,
a hot cup of coffee when I was waking.
Those reporters
those morning kids with acid smiles
drink that stuff all day:
Black already at 22 and 23.
They think it makes them hard
or brave.
But hey, it’s not the coffee
or stories
not even the mid-morning murders. It’s where you end up
when you wake up
these years of second shifts
A blinking machine and too many sounds
to feel soft.
“A blinking machine and too many sounds
to feel soft.”
Aaaaah! It’s lines like this that had me addicted to your work last year.
BELOW THE GRAVESITE HILL
My dog is following scents alive
this very morning—
someone who walked this path
past lilac heavy with blossom by the road,
and fields green in the root-
shade of oak. Birds leave trails of flight-
fancy in passing. The pond
has given up its images of dawn,
but still keeps remembrance in its water.
Scent lasts as long as weather lets it,
tracing our every step on earth;
traces thinner than smoke. Blazing
blue sky of this April morning.
“This Morning”
this morning
I braid the frayed silver hair
of my woman of grace,
her skin colored coffee with cream
who never leaves that bed
on the second floor anymore
sit with my sweet petite lady
in her condo far away
speak to her gently
she answers in that Kentucky drawl
I read to her from Genesis
she asks, “what’s the name of the second river
that flows into Eden?
I forget”
then driving back down that flowing river of a highway
a hawk skips across the sky
it’s a fresh spring day
I don’t even mind the wind
today
Blessed with another morning
I can hear the rooster’s crowin’
way off in the distance it seems
Can’t be morning already
seems i just fell asleep,
so it must be a dream.
My mind is so foggy,
eyes too heavy to open up,
Is that a voice i hear calling?
I can’t be sure.
Then a light tap on my shoulder i feel.
and words spoke as soft as a whispering wind.
Mom, it’s time to get up,i hear clearly then.
My eyes pop open,and standing bent over me
is the vision of my son smiling down at me.
As i look up at him,thinking to myself.
Im blessed with another morning,
to see the things most precious that life has to give.
Smiling,i say goodmorning to him,
as i get out of bed,grinning at the mornnin’.
thankful for the little things i have.
Samantha Tinney
Morning Dew
Dewdrops suspended
From blades of grass,
Tiny iridescent orbs
Radiating the morning’s first light,
The dawn drying the tears
Left by the night’s departure.
MORNING SALUTE TO ROBERT
If Robert gave a poet,
A “morning” prompt,
The poet would have to have
Ideas,
If an idea came to,
Light,
It would have to be,
Written,
If it had to be,
Written,
It would have to be,
Visualized,
Once it was,
Seen,
It would also have to be,
Done,
Once it was,
Done,
The poet could,
Write about it,
Being finished,
Which, completes the poem,
Following the prompt,
That Robert gave,
Could have been an idea about,
Yoko,
With the poet singing Beatle songs,
A thought about,
Yoda,
Poet could watch Star Wars,
Instead the message was clear about,
Yoga,
Because of the “morning” prompt,
That Robert gave,
Which, led the poet to have ideas about,
Morning,
Arriving at the thought of,
“Morning Prayer”,
Which, is a Yoga move,
Meaning the poet would need to do,
Yoga,
Before writing the poem about the,
Morning,
Which, means she salutes,
Robert,
For reminding her to do,
Yoga,
Focusing on the “morning prayer” exercise on the DVD,
Before she writes the,
Poem,
Happily starting a,
Great morning!
SO . . .
Thank you, Robert! It shook things up nicely . . .
Then we had a 3.9 earthquake . . . truly!
(By the way, I loved your soft morning poem!)
All in all, I consider this a “shake awake” morning!!
I thought again, how nice it would be on Janet Planet, then read about the earthquake. Hmm. Still wanna. ^_^
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write an ekphrastic poem, so here are two with a morning theme:
September Morn
“There’s too little morn and too much maid….”
Anthony Comstock
A water nymph, or just a young girl
with no inhibitions, or clothes,
skinny-dipping in a chilly, misty lake?
Chabas worked three years on it,
won a medal, and sent it to America
where it caused a major stir.
Indecent, cried the prudes of the day.
That only made her more popular –
postcards and parodies were everywhere.
Critics declaimed it as “kitsch”,
but almost as a last laugh,
she still hangs in New York’s Met,
where the mist still hangs on the mountain,
she still crouches demurely,
and the water in the lake is still cold.
Self-portrait with Clouds
“The sun poured in like butterscotch
and stuck to all my senses….”
Joni Mitchell
The young woman from Saskatoon
with long, shiny blonde hair,
solemnly holds a red lily
in her left hand,
while the Saskatchewan River
flows behind her, past the old hotel.
The sky, fiery reds, oranges, yellows –
butterscotch, if you will –
reflects in the waters.
For so many of us, she was the sunrise
on our musical journey –
“Chelsea Morning”, “Both Sides Now” –
and she still enthralls us with songs
on love, the world and its foibles,
proud as her provincial red flower.
Morning in the Mist
The most beautiful morning
I can remember
was in the Jefferson Wilderness
in the Pacific Northwest.
We’d hiked in the day before
with me and two boy scouts
and one man.
Plus 12 silly girls and 3 moms.
I remember feeling I just didn’t belong
not only because the girls
were so silly (they’d brought
curling irons
and hair dryers
for the hike)
but because I got along so much better
with the grownups.
My tent?
A tarp I strung between a couple trees.
I had a ground cloth,
the rain was light and
besides, the trees deflected
most of the rain
high above.
And that way, I didn’t have to hear
the ceaseless chatter, chatter, chatter
all night because no one wanted to share
my shelter.
(Well, save a squirrel I caught
robbing my pack. I let him have
a small store of granola.)
I slept fine.
The sun came up early, and the mist
was rising when I got up
and took a walk by the lake
and watched the sun come up
over the mountains.
I felt touched by God.
Diana Terrill Clark
Surya Namaskara (Sun Salutation)
The tips of my prayer brush the ceiling as I think,
to be alive is a wonderful thing– and bring them down,
spine coiling and uncoiling, spreading hooded bones–
and I can hear your sleeping breaths, feel my own
begin to keep time– spreading wings from my hips,
gliding backwards, all I can think about is beginnings–
although we are buried here in the dawn-blue room,
and there is nothing I want more than to climb into bed
where you are– cling to the ground, desperate for
some stability as it rises up to meet me, the earth’s
broad back meant to be balanced on for some enterprise–
and when I arch catlike with closed eyes, all my fibers
twist together– some part of that is you, zippered deep
inside the most momentary spaces– which I gather
cupped in my palms to show to the sun, whose gaze
and fire pierces every wall– even these unspoken ones,
which can seem
so hard to break.
Another sensational poem leads the parade down the street !!
I want to read this over and over out loud until my tongue quits on me. This is beautiful.
CURTAINS
It was a tap on my shoulder, I’m sure . . .
rubbing my eyes, I get up
out of my sleeping bag. Who’s there
no one, just me. How could that be. Yes,
morning dew on my cheeks. Like a leaf of grass
I could have been a snail, or worm. Okay . . .
Hello, in the distance, a light,
pulling the darkness apart bit by bit. Ah
the birds know something, no reason to speak up,
impatient like me. I know there is a body of water
down there. I swam across last week. That’s better
there are a few deer down there. I must tell my doctor
to cancel the appointment with the ophthalmologist.
The fresh air of these foothills is good
for the constitution. Wow, I didn’t know the river started
over there. Some day
I have to go rowing from that point
to my house. Right,
I’ll ask the people who live
on the lakefront for permission
to tie my canoe. That is nice . . .
it’s a squirrel, isn’t it. Watch him
bury his treasure. Why can I stay here
forever. Must I walk back to my car . . .
at least I can take the country road
home
No rest for the wicked, getting
back on cold cement—the old road is
being renovated, soon to become upended
making my leisurely trips efficient. I zoom
to my happy home. Walk up the stairs,
promise myself to leave these four walls
some day . . . come morning I draw the curtain
open the window. Take a deep breath
as the traffic rushes below me. I remind myself
as I have done, again and again,
sound proof my picture window
fill my living room with greenery
and the recorded memories enchanted glades.
Zev Davis
She cried.
There are but a few things that can be done
when the sun shines on and on.
But when the light wears out,
when the sky grows cold,
eternity can be grasped.
She supposed it was just loneliness.
Her mother, gone the way the crow flies,
placed the leftovers in a stained glass lasagne dish,
and built a castle from coffee grounds.
Her father, a memory now moreso than an acceptance,
tried to shed some tears, but when the moon hit its zenith,
he had yet to produce a single salinated drop.
She was comfy in her bed, wrapped up in her animals and
dreams, while her parents bit the road.
The sun, always the optimist,
gently tickled her nose and washed her face.
At first, she rolled over, thinking her reveries had become at once a
stark reality and she was indeed floating along a sea of perfumed blankets
with a tail wind coming from the Peppermint Isles.
It was the silence that stirred her,
the eerie cloud of noiselessness
that drifted over her senses.
She kept her eyes closed against the raiding heat
and murmured a soft demure into the hallway.
It was time.
Usually, the acrid smell of hot brew rides in unannounced,
eggs crackling and sputtering.
The dawn broke gently.
And she knew. She knew it was real.
And she cried.
Her tears replacing the smiles and laughs of family.
A Morning During Duck Season
You pinch my toe “It’s time to go” I throw my long-johns and camo on
And we embark into the dark to the spot we scouted
Through the bog and muck we quietly shluck along
In a minute or two we get to a wall of reeds that line a bay
It’s in the place we’ll spend the next several hours
We place the decoys with tiny lights to shine the way
Once we’re set, the stillness comes, still well before the dawn
So we sit back and sip some coffee and listen to the swamp
The bullfrogs croak and chirp while blackbirds sing nature’s song
One by one the stars blink out and the sky goes from black to gray
To pinks and yellows and oranges mirrored in the glassy water
And little white whips, elusive as dreams, dance and swirl and play
It’s in these moments that I find, when all is still and calm
I hear the voice of the divine and feel connected to it all
And just to prove it the sun illuminates a flock of gold winged swans.
No Regrets
It has been long years since last I saw the dawn
and longer still since I awake
have walked in morning mist.
There is no sorrow in my heart
for early hours lost to sleep,
when mankind in its madness
hurries hustling toward the day.
I am a man of nighttime,
of stars and silence,
when all the civil world lies curled
and sleeping soundly in their beds.
I revel in the night-bird songs
and in the solitude that darkness brings.
No cars or crowds to strain my nerves,
no ringing of the phones.
Just peace and quiet in the dark,
just being here alone.
The sun at noon looks fresh to me.
The air, now warm, seems soothing.
The early hours are not missed
nor thought of fondly in my heart.
I sleep away the morning,
but it is not from spite,
just a matter of bad timing
since the morning follows night.
I LIKE THAT…
Says one night owl to you.
Wordless Morn
So simple, So hard:
Morning poem this Morning
Now it’s Afternoon!
Time to Walk the Dog (a Tri-fall, 18 lines)
Morning is a cold nose
in my face
as he announces a new day.
Morning’s eyes, staring, froze,
squarely trace
my eyes, pretending sleep do sway.
Morning’s here for my pug,
never late;
He’s early-up by mid-seven.
Patience is his best plug.
Hapless fate
if forced to wait beyond ‘leven.
Eyes watch, microscopic:
appealing.
Sits he quiet ’til doomsday falls.
Breathes he on my eyelids toxic,
fluttering…
He knows my charade, so he bawls.
Thank you. For doing a tri-fall, and such a fun one.
Brilliance
Solutions refresh,
give hope,
expectancy,
like sun’s shiny rays.
They’re fabulous,
bright and early.
Monday Morning
And then she died on a Monday morning.
She always missed herself.
She was so unhappy.
She would always be so tired
carrying an awful mood
on Monday mornings.
That, though, was not enough
to make her change her habits.
“Why Monday mornings?” I would ask.
She didn’t know why.
It was a tradition.
She would get up early and complain
about the hard work she would have
because it was Monday morning!
She would rip all the sheets off the beds.
On Monday mornings.
And she would separate the whites from the colored pieces,
soaking the whites in sudsy water and laying them under
the sun. It could be on the ceramic tile yard floor
or on the lower roof. The whites would become
whiter. And she would become more and more tired.
She wanted it. It was her mission.
In her mind, it was good to suffer because later,
she would deserve heaven.
She would wear out herself.
She would wash all those clothes, by hand
in cold water, in the ceramic laundry sink,
all morning,
every Monday morning.
When the weather was unset it was worse -
she would hang the clothes on the line anyway,
only to run, minutes later, in a frenzy,
and take all the clothes out of the rain
before they would get
even more wet.
“It’s a probation!” – she would say. Probably she thought
it would be more guaranteed to go to heaven this way,
because she would insist on that task,
rain or shine, for it was
Monday morning.
She would run with the damp clothes in her arms,
calling for god’s mercy, because it shouldn’t rain
when she had clothes on the line.
On Monday mornings.
Every Monday morning the scene repeated.
And everything could have been different.
This broke my heart. So well written.
ROCK ON IN MORNING
At morning break,
I awake not to some
annoying sound, but
two bed shakes
administered by
my hubby
who screnely stands
holding my day’s
“first cut of java.”
Oh darn,
‘cut’ works (sorta)
but it is really “first cup of java”
and he cannot drink the stuff!
MORNING COMMUTE
Walking to the car, I hear
the oscillating honk of one
Canadian goose, watch it
sailing solo overhead
in pursuit of some other.
Its call goes unanswered
and the undulation
of its wings crescendos
in desperation (if geese
feel such things) to catch
that silent mate. I wait
at my door until the cry
subsides to echoes, dies.
And I, shivering in the chill
of dawn, wish I could rise
and companion that lone
bird, start fresh upon
the warming air and wave
off to wherever, without
luggage, cash, or grief.
Ah – excellent thought – to “companion” a Canadian goose sounds so free!!
MORNING IN ABSENTIA
I never made it ’til morning.
The night, devoid of life, devoured me,
keeping me to herself; not returning me
to my shelf where I belong.
I had long been a believer
that dreams sustained us;
colored and stained us in the hues
of night’s muted mystic mists
offering rest and procurring the best
thoughts we ought to foster.
But, I get lost in the night,
wandering in verdant pastures
casting long distant shadows.
The comfort of night escapes me.
It takes me into dreams I can’t keep.
Now I avoid sleep, never really seeing
daylight’s first gleaming.
So much for dreaming;
morning in absentia.
Flick of the Wrist
Pale
light
flickers
into earth
where up it rises
to rest a moment on a string
stretched between fire and water – flashing like a yoyo
we spin, ethereal as a dream, until we fall crashing back into solid night
Love this one, Dan. that moment on a string – so lovely.
Dread the Morning
Let the night stay
For I dread the morning
With its alarms and deadlines
The daily rush and clock-in times
For here in your arms I am happy
There is no rushing
No need to hurry away
Warmth and love surround me
Acceptance and no judging
Let me stay with you
Don’t let morning tear this away
Robert, Your poem today is, well, is – well it made me gasp. One of your best ever.
I am 5 days behind due to the Missouri writers’ conference and my own birthday. Both were quite fine. My hope is to catch up and keep going, despite followup duties from said conference. The sad thing is I may never catch up on reading the poems here. I’m glad they stay available after April.
Not to be “gaggy-braggy” but I am happy to say one of my poems took in 2nd place in the conference contest. It was an Alphabet poem from a previous PAD. As long as I’m patting my back for my own comfort, I just had 4 poems published in an anthology, some of them written in previous PAD challenges. April is the rare time I devote to mostly poetry, as am usually too focusesd on other projects. One of my judges is a former state Poet Laureate.
I am trying to say “Thank You” to all of you here on the street, for your example and inspiration. You are an admiral group and I appreciate you! My local writers group has the motto, “Writers Encouraging Writers” and you are the epitome of that in action.
Congratulations!! I have read many of your excellent PAD poems – your recognition is well deserved! Way to Poem!!!!
Goodonya Marcia!
THERE IS NO I ON I-35
and my new friend Terrence says, “Trucking must
get pretty dull.” And I say, “Man, does it ever, but
once I was driving all night through the very heart
of nowhere, and the sky got dark and then a little
light. You know how sometimes you get an urge
and you follow, and you don’t know why? An exit
ramp came, and I took it, skidding the rig to a stop.
The light came both fast and slow, and man, I was
nowhere, horizon flat as a truckstop bed or a bowl
of plain oatmeal. The sun popped out of it, a glow-
worm, and I jumped out the cab, seized by its pull.
Its warmth came in a wave, and I sat cross-legged
on the dusty shoulder. The plain lit up and I saw it:
the expanse of brown grass and green weeds; pale,
tiny flowers; rustling ripples where living critters
shared that new day’s ration of sun-heat with me;
and far across the plan, bumps of a building, maybe
a barn or a town, some trees. Under my legs, I saw
shards of concrete landfill among the rocks that had
bubbled up from the earth at some time so long ago.
I would be late. It didn’t matter. I think I lay down
and slept right there, washing into the ground like
the infinite water, gone utterly and returned before
the sun’s dome was fully built. What I mean, Terry,
is that I was not nowhere at all. I was everywhere,
and I think I had to be driving all night to see it.”
FangO
I read your poem twice – I liked what I was seeing – and I love the way the world looks when it dawns after driving all night!
That is a fantastic discription of one fantastic morning.
Thank you bunches for sharing.
Oh so brilliant! ( And quite Kerouacian.
Kerouacian is an awesome adjective! I love saying it out loud.
Monday morning
wishing for a snooze button
on the kids
Darn, they never seem to come with one.
Wonder if one could be duck-taped on in some way?
Dream Interrupted
We were just about to kiss…
when the stupid alarm went off.
I could feel it in my knees!
We were just about to kiss…
Must go back and catch some ZZZ’s.
SO WHAT if this isn’t love?
We were just about to kiss…
when the stupid alarm went off.
The Acorn Eaters
At dawn, the acorn eaters come to graze
In dimmest light to nuzzle through the grass
Beneath the oaks, as falling leaves rain down.
The pink sky makes their silhouettes gold-tinged
Like gilt frames individually shaped
To house their subtle movements on the lawn.
Sometimes there’s only two or three to see,
Mere ancillary members of the herd,
Who eat greedily lest the others come
And send them scrounging at the forest’s edge.
Sometimes the yard is shadowed by the herd,
Young does and fawns kept watch on by a stag
With antlers, crowns like lightening, on his head,
His neck muscled and straining with their weight.
He stands aloof and stamping in the chill,
His ears erect, his nostrils making clouds,
His senses honed to hunters, dogs, and cars—
The old man of the herd, the toughest buck.
If he sees me watch from my windows now,
He doesn’t credit me as dangerous.
Or maybe all of them see signs of care
For nature’s people, bird and deer alike,
And needing a safe haven for a while,
They come here trusting me at break of day.
In any case, they lift my heart each time
They wander from the woods into the yard
Gentled by acorns, as they gentle me.
Just perfect, Jane. What a peaceful last line.
Thanks, Sara.
Morning Thoughts
I wake to the aroma
of fried eggs wafting
from the kitchen, but
it is late and no one
is home
He wakes early,
sometimes before I
am asleep and begins
his day in silence and
routine
I rarely see the early
morning except if I am
not asleep and peek
out through the blinds
to see the strands of
red and gold ride
across the sky
I wake to the
certainty I have
missed something,
but in my half sleep
state remember
mornings when I
was roused by the
sweet voices of
starving kids
with their soft
kisses and
insistent yells
of “Mommy, wake
up. I’m hungry”
The mad dash to
feed those empty
vessels and send
them out to the
world still in my
pajamas racing
like a madwoman
behind the wheel
to the school’s doors.
Waking Out
I tumble halfway back through the rabbit hole
And end up stuck in the door, as my alarm sings
What I hope will be its swan song, and faces float
In the pool of my memory, twisted by the fears
And desires of my vigilant unconscious.
The problem is that breakfast must be made,
My clock continues its wailing anthem, and
The faces are sinking anyway. I stumble out
Of bed before I’ve quite left the rabbit hole
Entirely, mumbling something incoherent
To my conscious about how late I am.
MORNINGS AFTER
Mornings after the fire-fight,
mornings after the last words flung
careless buckshot memories.
Mornings after the plates shattered,
The glasses fractured, words razored,
all thrown at highest pitch– irrevocable.
In the mornings, after the bottles
Get rinsed in soapy water, dropped
in recycling bins, regrets well deep
and darken what remains.
We always regret the mornings after;
why do we repeat the nights before?
***
Peace, LindaS-W
Beautifully written and so true. Thanks for sharing.
This is a heartfelt poem. Wonderful!
Another Morning Poem.
and I wake
“I was running a race in my dream,” I said.
“No wonder I’m always still tired in the morning.”
PAD THERAPY day 23
MOURNING.
it’s a white morning in nearly Spring
the trees are black more than they’re green
in contrast set against the sky
as snow is falling
fast
we pause as birds ready to fly
we’ve left you in the hands of God
and grief-trained hosts at the mortuary
my dove heart beating
fast
biting my tears I turn to see
him gazing at the scenery
pain and joy both cross his face
“She would have loved this,” he says,
“the snow,
the contrast”
He smiles.
Beautiful!
Thank you, i appreciate that.
Secret Lovers
By Robin A. Burrows
Mornings
are more brilliant
when nights
hold your soul;
dawn a fable
whispered of
beneath blue skies.
But
with sleep refrained
or sleep interrupted
magic hovers
on the horizon.
The orange-pink glow
beats back the darkness.
Rays of light
break the shroud
and embrace the sky.
Colors explode
in the passionate
love-making of dawn.
Somnambulist
I awaken slowly
(a dream?)
confused, puzzling
(a nightmare?)
where I am
(or merely a metaphor?)
roller-skating on cobblestones
Frozen Moment
Magic
Pure Magic
Filled this moment
Caught in between
The sun rising
And night fading
A few bright stars
Still hung in the sky
While morning painted
Her glory across the horizon
Soft hues of pink and lavender
Highlighting the low lying fog
Wisping across the countryside
Patches here and there
As a new day was birthed
And a myriad possibilities
Awaited discovery
In this frozen moment
Before reality comes crashing in
And the sun scorches
Our dreams away
It’s Morning!!!
Suddenly in the middle of the night
My eyes open
Look around curiously
No, it is not morning yet
Then after what seems like eternity
I can hear the birds chirping
One of the windows
With undrawn blinds
The morning light filtering
I open my eyes slightly
Eyelids still squeezed tightly
To assess the morning hue
The day’s schedule runs through the mind
Helter-skelter, haphazardly so
I turn on my side waiting still
To grab that right moment
To get out of bed
I shut my eyes again
Hoping the morning
Will shy away
But it just grows by the second
The light bolder, the birds louder
Even a slight buzz of the highway
I turn on the other side
Trying to shut out the noise
But no, it is morning
It is time to get up and get going
While the feeling is still gnawing
Of things undone, of hope and love
Of a fresh beginning, cozy and snug
Sleep
A moan, a stretch, each signals awareness
Of body, long seconds before mind is engaged,
Just before spirit reclaims thought to realize
Your presence is gone with night’s dream.
Wonderment at spirit’s choice of companions
Floods the body, releasing joys at reunion
With one absent so long from life’s path,
Giving solace with knowledge of future visits.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
God’s Alarm Today
Ribbons of ethereal light-splashed color
Pour out their hearts for my sake,
To bring me back into this waking world
Without need for jangling noise
Or mind-bending musical accompaniment.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Lovely!! The very best kind of alarm.
Eyes peering, leering;
my Scotty, Burns, yearns to go.
My choice is clear. RISE!
Morning Mother
Morning kicked open the door
with its usual buttered blandishments,
something about “Rise and shine” or
“Up and at ’em, sleepyhead.”
I couldn’t hear it over the buzz
of the alarm, which sits by my head
like a small child, complicated
and simple, all at once.
Morning is when I grope for meaning:
What is that sound? Why is there
light peering in around the edges
of the shade? Who sent it?
This is not a poem about my momming.
I’m not going to tell you about oatmeal
and waking children, the hustle and rush
(or rustle and hush). Backpack. Shoes.
In this poem, I am the child,
trying to make sense of everything,
resisting my morning mother, who
could explain it, if only I would listen.
LoveloveLOVE this. “buttered blandishments”…alarm as small child…that fourth stanza that sounds like you spied on me this morning.
Wonderful!
Thanks! It’s funny how our mornings matched up, and then our poems are one right after the other. I love when things like that happen.
Me, too.
At my house we call that spontaneous creative combustion.
Morning Commute
Seven kids,
10 and
under.
Headphones.
Carpool Tunnel Syndrome.
.
Very clever, De, and yours and mine seem to go together well.
Haha “Carpool Tunnel Syndrome.”
I love it.
Thanks, ladies.
I’ve said that for a long time, and finally put it in a poem.
Early Memory
The morning crackles
wide open, breakfast
sings with saunter, tangy
bits of oats and orange
rocket fuel to make school
days go, gloss and shine
clean as pressed shirt
and blue pinafore, ankle
socks strapped in black
patent polished and tapping
to the corner we wait
the little sisters shuffling
behind, we climb aboard
and wave; mother releases,
sweeps into the first passing
taxi cab wrangling her way
to all she worships: rooms
squared wall-to-wall in mirrors
where flesh and bone fly
to reveal sculpted feet
her hair pulled back tight.
Mistress takes her seat
Wow!! This is truly incredible. I especially love the opening.
Morning
It is still dark outside.
I’m wearing a t-shirt
inside out, and the door
is hooked shut.
Her head is resting in
the hollow of my arm.
Neither of us has moved
for ten hours.
Drowsy lips brush my cheek.
And when I wake again
I can smell lavender.
And coffee.
Oh, Iavender and coffee. How I wish my husband didn’t hate the scent of lavender.
Aberdeen Morn
Milky mists waft skyward
rising off of the Dee;
the mouth of rivers, confluent
and resonant in their
alliteration. The Rivers
Don and Dee meet
and greet Bard Burns
as he rises stoicly
above Union Terrace.
If you awaken early
you’d swear you heard
the sounds of the ancient
Scots hailing to
clan and kin, and in
the shadows, the bellow
of pipes long buried
play their dirge to night.
A bright morning scene
as seen in Aberdeen!
(an ABC poem)
“This morning I’m just. . . ”
A silly millimeter closer to either the
bounty or perhaps the blizzard of your
cursory hug or was it an intentional stab,
damn, they feel the same–
this bedlam of pleasure and pain.
That’s a killer of a last line! I really like this one.
What Andrew said. Wow.
Thanks, Andrew and ina.
THE IRONY OF HOMOPHONES
Morning should be a joyous event
As one wakes up for yet another day
Relishing the beginning of something new
Something pure
Another chance to do
Right.
Yet mourning sees the
Opposing end of the spectrum
As one sees hardship and struggle
While attempting to overcome
Heartache and pain
While everything feels
Wrong.
The irony of it all
Only serves to bring up the futile point
That it can’t be changed
And time will continue to pass
Governing the way we live
Each day
Speaking our truths
Dealing with the inevitability of
Where life will lead us.
Breakfast
It is the privilege of grandparents
to watch you, small elf,
eat things you wouldn’t touch
at home.
Delicious
thanks!
Love it! My grandma used to slice bananas into my Cheerios when she and I were the only ones up in the morning. I hated bananas — except in her kitchen.
dew kissed lashes
washed away with gentle lips -
morning mourning
Spring Mornings in the Midwest
Frost covered ground
gives way to dewy grass
as the rising sun
warms the air
and the merry song
of the Robin
perks you up
like a cup of coffee
as you watch
the cottonwood seeds
float by
you muse
on what a wicked
sense of humor
Mother Nature has
as the cottonwood seeds
pile on the ground
like a late spring snow.
A CHANGE OF HEART
Mornings…
once loathed, now loved.
(It’s OK to change my mind, yes?)
gone, the jarring, jangling alarms
waking instead to tender whispers
as I rest in your outstretched arms
comfortable and comforted
(A girl can dream, yes?)
Mornings…
where dreams end.
(Now…where’s the coffee?)
2012-04-23
P. Wanken
Dawning
It isn’t until
the sky explodes into
a million fiery orange
and scarlet slivers and
the full fat moon fin
-ally fades backstage
that we realize this is
the tomorrow that we
talked about, and it’s
time to go on home.
.
Yanked from a Dream
The morning’s verdict comes too soon
On night’s like this
But dawn is fading out the moon
With silent kiss
Her curves align intricately
Against the dark
As day becomes a silver sea
And night the spark
I close my eyes willing night’s spell
To linger on
It is no use; for I can tell
That you are gone
The warmth of you against my skin
Is hard to bear
Ten-thousand memories hovering
On stringent air
The morning’s verdict will not sway
Its fingertips
Methodically tug you away
From sleep-warm lips
Smoothly the smiling day invades
The dreamer’s bliss
And with the dawn you slip away
No farewell kiss
Born Daily
That fresh smell in the air
could be the innocence of a new
day emerging from the curve of
a tired earth or the sudden way
the sun brightens between the
row of maple trees and suddenly
the front lawn is spotted with shadows.
I lean against the porch railing to watch
the emergence of all our old landmarks,
the sagging shed, the unpainted chicken
coop, the new coal pile recently started.
The remains of the night’s cricket serenade
still echo as the singers call it a day .
We begin to poke around the same chores
retirement has left for us . This is how
we remember to unwrap the morning,
spread it out in the sunlight and take
a look, folks, we’re all – still here!
SLEEP MORNING START
Morning has a saintly glow
luminous and tender, late
reflections of an olden moon
that watches over us by night.
It offers up its halo, leaving its
ivory dust to tumble lost and soft
like a crown of duck down
at sunrise as a new day breaks.
Life awakes and dons a crown
of misty gauze, a veil teased open
by early sunbeams piercing
straight through an azure sky.
Deep into the heart of your
sleepy morning start.
The title is SLEEPY MORNING START.
Division: The Long and Short of It
It was a challenge,
but she was a one-woman
circus act when it came to balance
From an early age
she had chopped the day
in thirds—
the night had its own
bladed parameters—
And she had always jumped over
the delineations
(except for the depressive paralysis
and broken leg months)
with a meditated airiness
So imagine her trauma on
that summer visit to Spain,
where morning melted away
around two, siestas swallowed
up half the afternoon, the
other half still carrying its label
to at least seven,
and evening fused into the night
at a variable hour
But it was her ticket to
a certain self-imposed freedom
and the first thing she did
after dropping her luggage
by the front door
was to carry out to tri-platform scale
to the garden for the birds
and breezes to
balance
Traveling Into Tomorrow
I’m gliding on globs
of gilded cherubs
holding my white dress.
Their fat little faces
frown at me
because this really
isn’t their job.
This is something
they normally do
for God, but he is
much heavier and
more serious.
It wouldn’t matter
if they accidentally
dropped me. But
the general had
ordered them
to give me a ride
so they were doing it.
I wasn’t going far,
just to Iraq.
There aren’t any
commercial flights there
and I needed so much
to see my son.
They dropped me as
a joke, or maybe out
of anger, into an oil well.
I climbed out slowly
dripping from head
to toe in a nauseous black
mucus. I rolled in the
sand and some came off.
Then I hopped on the
back of a camel who
kept trying to bite me.
I rode for hours in an
endless sandy landscape
until I finally saw
the base. When I got
there, they tried to
give me candy and
pamphlets about hygiene.
My mouth was stuck
together for a while,
they told me to
“get going”. Gradually my lips
opened and I fell from
the camel in exhaustion.
Their feet at my eye level
I tried to beg to see my son.
“American” I
screamed, but
none of the language
was coming out right.
They thought I wanted
a ticket to America.
Finally I got
my son’s name out,
and they seemed a
little less like they were
handling me.
“What’s that?
What’s the name? Rank?”
I told them all I
could remember
and they left me there.
baking in the sand.
I rolled over and
scrubbed my
arms and face with
the sand, so that my
son could recognize me.
At last a whole group
of soldiers came out
and picked me up
and took me in the
camp. They gave me
water from their
camel packs and took
me to the showering area.
Then my son showed
up, wide-eyed with shock.
He said “mom is that you?”
“Yes”, I said, “I had to
get here. I had to
ignore some bad angels
and the cherubs
played a trick on me.”
“Mom, you shouldn’t
have come, I told you
I’m ok.”
“Being ok is not
enough for me. I have
to touch you with
my eyes and see your
fingers, your legs, body
and face. One year
without you is too much.
You can’t ask that of me.”
and then it was morning.
Oh, cindi. This took my breath away this morning. That first line “I’m gliding on globs
of gilded cherubs
holding my white dress.”
and – gasp – that last.
Amazing, from start to finish.
This is wonderful. If this is from your own experience, I wish your child a safe return.
Thankyou, and yes it was from my own experience. Even though he has already returned, I live this nightmare over and over again.
Oh. My breath has been partially returned. So thankful he has returned safely My brother is Army special forces, often flown out for months to parts unknown. I cannot even imagine it being my son. Thank you for sharing your heart with us, Cindi. Just beautiful.
Amazing is right!
Too early
Restlessly the shadows danced in my head
as the rickety bed punctured each futile attempt at slumber
with an obnoxious “squeak”
As the cottony cocoon of sleepy cobwebs
finally entwined my tired mind
an unwelcome ringing began in my ear
“Hello, this is your friendly superintendent
calling to inform you of a two-hour delay”
It’s too early to go back to sleep
Oh, yeah! It was too early to go back to sleep – but the extra two hours was welcome! I started poeming when I should have been lesson planning!
Sunday Morning
We went at dawn to do the woman’s work
with spices and oil. I couldn’t help but think
that this time He would be unaware
of my anointment, this time no one
would begrudge the gift. That man lay dead,
his silver coins tossed on the ground,
spent to buy the Field of Blood,.
How would he feel to know his legacy,
not food for the poor for whom he feigned
sympathy, concern, but a potter’s field
to bury the unloved, unclaimed, unknown?
We thought no morning could be darker
than yester morn, that Sabbath of death,
our ragtag band gathered in grief and fear,
trying to make sense of all He’d said.
Wrestling with doubt, defeat, unlikely hope,
we’d gone through the day of rest unrested.
Today at least we had a purpose, a job
to do, our hands kept busy, our memories
overwhelmed with our grief, His love.
Who could have thought a stone out of place,
an unexpected void, could mystify us so?
How foolish, with our expectations low,
to fail to recognize the one face we’d sought
in every crowd for three full years, a face
so plain, so unremarkable, so human, so divine.
GOOSEBUMP GOOD! Nancy this is so beautifully rendered! I’m so thankful for your words, what a gift!
Robert I love your poem today. I wish we could do this all year long, it is so much fun.
Cindi, lots of us DO!
Join us! Wednesdays here at PA, Sundays at Poetic Bloomings, and there are multiple other prompt sites frequented by very familiar names. Stick around! Your stuff is great, and I’d love to read it all year long!
YES! What, De, said, Cindi!!! Stick with us and you’ll be happily poeming all year long!!! Smiles!
Booting Up
- Orange behind closed lids, tetchy birdsong
Een net ontloken bloem ligt op mijn tong
White laps at my palate and salad bites the buds
Tasting what dreams have left behind, fresh
Bloeiend als de puurheid van het jong’s gefruts
Duif op de dakrand, door moeder het nest uitgeschopt
I had a daughter too and I was running an empire
Silly in a green dress and wings, so good to fly
Een dwarrel van de toren af met veren in mijn neus
Laughing, peal as clear as bells telling the hour
Should have ten more minutes to wash so I forget
Nog eventjes te kroelen met die droom. De dag
Af te wachten totdat my brain clicks back on track
Running a monolingual to-do list through my mind
Toothpaste mint brushing the flower from my tongue
Sunrise
The rain pours
steadily down. Clouds
darken the
morning sky.
Roused from sleep, I watch you wake.
You are my sunshine.
Mornings
Alarm starts to buzz
Soft at first, then louder
Wife says, “10 more minutes”
Reset
10 minutes fly by
Alarm starts to buzz
Grunts and groans
Bones pop back into place
I swallow my meds
All 5 in one gulp
Followed by a pack
Of men’s vitamins
Brush my teeth and
Head for the kitchen
3 cats in the house
One living on the porch
All whining for breakfast
Winding one-by-one
Round-and-round my ankles
“Calm down, boys
You’re not gonna’ starve”
Plink, Plink, Plink
Three plates on the floor
Go outside to feed the
Neighborhood hobo cat
Wish he could live inside
But the protective nature
Of our Maine Coon Cat
Says no way
Gotta’ scoop the cat box
Three cats sure can process
A lot of food overnight
Glad I got odor control litter
Turn on Fox and Friends
Swing the TV so I can see
From my place between
The stove and sink
Gotta’ keep up with the news
Pots and pans clank
Get out the turkey bacon
The eggs and bagels
Butter and Laughing Cow
Mama has to have a good meal
Before heading off to the bank
I prefer oatmeal
With skim milk
That cholesterol thing
Don’t you know
Good thing I like oatmeal
And skim milk
Add some dried cranberries
Or a quartered and sliced banana
And it’s yummy in my tummy
Mama’s off to work
Got some dishes to catch up on
And the garbage can is full
So I get the kitchen done
And off to the office I go
Thirty seconds later
I’m turning on my laptop
Checking my emails
Updating my assignments
And scheduling my day
So nice to work at home
Slant(-eyed) Rhyme
6:30am
still isn’t a good time
for stirring my muse.
coffee,
yes.
words,
maybe.
but they
spill
out
all
c o n f u s e d.
.
Good morning sleepy head, De!! Confused or not your words ALWAYS rock!!! <3
De, this is just perfect.
Boy do i feel ya! Well put.
Thanks, all.
~THIS MORN AND ALL THE ONES TO COME~
Your eyes shine
as violet spills
thick waxy marks,
flowing forth from
determined strokes.
Simplicity and creativity
at its finest,
your mind is fresh,
unimpressed yet
with the happenings
of this world;
the mystery and
the madness of it
is not apparent
as you pursue paper.
I parent you,
planting two hands
steadily on periphery
so that you may proceed,
encouraged and strengthened
in the knowledge,
a mere feeling now
more than an understanding,
that you’ll have support
as you step forward.
In all that you wish,
In each dream
In every length of longing;
I’ll be behind
your very purpose;
my heart entwined
enriched in the sharing
in the allowing
of what shall become
of this life anew,
protecting the preordained.
I feel Your presence
as You do the very same
in our lives,
gently guiding
and holding us sacred, safe.
© H.G. @ P.A. 4/23/12 mornings
Ottawa Spring
Grey light early morning, tight budded
leaves curl on the upper branches
just outside my window. A week
from now it will be May. Today
I catch a sideways glimpse, something
white and the trees shivering.
Lilacs, tender with new growth
bend low with unexpected burden.
Tulips, daffodils, one stray hyacinth,
all poke leaves through a heavy cloak
of snow. And me, praying it will
go before these sentinels of spring surrender.
Carol A. Stephen
April 23, 2012
“something
white and the trees shivering.
Lilacs, tender with new growth”
I love your poem this morning, Carol, especially in this wording. Beautiful!
I hope the Sens are the SENtinels of spring surrender and send the Rangers packing. I’m lacking the spirit this day!
This is a lovely poem. Ottawa in tulips – or Ottawa on ice – such beauty!!
Lovely, Carol. I adore that last line.
I open my eyes
Seems God gave me one more day
Better get to it
Such a great attitude, Earl!
Oh no as I go
I see now with less bleared eye
That farther down the street I spy
Oh Ber! Oh Eely” Oh Imaginalchemy
I had to be half asleep to begin good mornings
thinking all in long term heart impressed would flow
Out into short term memory
So yes good morning I meant well
And sure instead so many omitted say
With her insane rhymes why doesn’t she just go to
H E double hockey sticks!
Enjoy the day.. This time and each syllable precious…
” This time and each syllable precious…”
So true, Pearl!! Smiles and a beautiful day to you!!
Morning, Mourning
Almost a gift, those moments after waking
before I first remember once again
that you are gone, time to imagine I’ll turn
to find you there beside me, waking too
Oh my…each time I turn to leave…. Oooh Nancy this is truly exquisite in its stunning simplicity.
Wow. So strong and achingly beautiful.
julie e
Oooh Wakt….was just signing off and caught this….AHHHHHH can smell the brew…good for you…oh now caught in rhyme leaving now for a restorative time…
Congrats to Walt… Or did his twin “Wakt” write this one?
Pearl, I have been known to be wacked from time to time. Or wakt (alternate spelling)
Wild Awakening
The howling gale deploys its wrath
Against the shivering dawn
Nothing remains within its path
That is not fastened down
It screams and shrieks at every door
In urgent nothingness
A mammoth bully with a roar
Tormenting budded tress
And yet, the dawn creeps to the air
Above the earth’s turmoil
I fold my helpless thought in prayer
And trust God with my spoil
oh so personal…and lovely
So very heartfelt, Janet. Gorgeous!
NOTHING GOOD ABOUT MORNING
M
o s
r r u
n e c
i a k
n l s
g l !
_ y !
Morning, comes too soon. The night would be
all right if morning stayed out of sight. But, it comes
out and rears its ugly head and instead of being want ed,
it becomes reviled (no matter how mild it seems to you!
It is true that “Morning Becomes Electra”, But that just
happens to be because she stayed in bed. For me morn-
ing comes too soon. I could sleep until noon, but my job
won’t allow it. And when it comes so soon I will not
kowtow it, for as soon as my head touched down I’ll be
sound asleep. Salutations to a new day should stay
far away, for there is NOTHING good about the break
of day. The alarm clock annoys me, my paper is dewey.
My joints all creaky and my mind goes kerflooey.
The floors are cold and I’m getting too old for this shit.
But it is getting late and I stand a great chance
of being tardy and I’m hardly awake. What’s it
going to take to get me going? It’s snowing and
that will be slowing me down as well. What the
hell, nothing about morning stirs me, I… wait,
what is that I smell, as far as I can tell it can
be only one thing: Arabica Beans deep roasted.
I think I may just like this lousy morning after all.
Brilliant…Walt, always a surprise! WOW! There are so many layers to your talent and this morning I am blown away and it has nothing to so with the weather outside!
I love a great concrete infused with the smell of coffee and humor from a good pal!! Great one, Walt, smiles to you!!
Yaaaaaay! Somebody made coffee!
Walt, how I love you right now. This is awesome!
My mind has been kerflooey since 5am!
Cheers, Java Man. Thank you!
OH my goodness! i saw your flowing letters and was preparing for elegant words of morning….i fell right into your trap! LOL! And thank you for that. ;-D
julie e
It’s not a morning without coffee (and breakfast, for that matter), so it’s no surprise I wasn’t alone in poeming about it! However…though it’s already lunchtime and I’m only just now reading, I’m still very pleased to see a cup of steamin’ java! (Thanks for that !) And…as for morning sucking…we can rejoice as the afternoon has already steam-rolled a.m. in your timezone and mine!
Morning to Night
The dew is upon the ground
There isn’t even a single sound
The cold has pushed the birds
into their nests
But not the robin red breast
He sits there upon his branch
and watches all around him
With his little eyes fixed in a glance
The morning is starting to come alive
The sun is seting in the sky
Clouds break away , make room for sunshine
Birds take flight, dogs bark, cats fight
The postman pushes letters through the door
CLAP CLAP goes the latch upon the door
Smell of toast burning
The coffee and the tea
Children geting ready for school
But not old nanny
There it is silence once more
All the madness mayhem
Clothes threw across the floor
The machine is hopping around the place
Looking in the mirror
Forgot to wash my face
Clothes are blowing on the washing line
Floors are shinning
Husband is whinning
Any chance of a cuppa tea?
Some toast maybe ? one sugar or two ?
She turns and says you may wait and see
That man is making a fool out of me
The smile on her face
says it all, she will look after him
He won’t let her stall
House work done
Time to relax
He jumps out of the chair
He was forgeting to pay the tax
But he won’t budge to pay it
He gives her a smile
Will you do that for me
of course she will, sure what else has she to do
only everything she thinks to herself
I wonder is there a cure for lazyness
So she hands him the brush
And asks him to sweep
The look in his eyes
He had a look on his face like he was going to weep
The thoughts of cleaning
made him feel really sick
But she was fed up of him taking the mick
So the door bangs behind her
As the brush hits the floor
And he doesn’t take advantage
oh not anymore
The time passes by
it is tme for our beds
And we will do it all again tomorow
But he can do it
She is resting her head
Good to delegate every once and awhile, I say!! Good for you! I love how these lines really bring the quick, quick choppy feeling of a day speeding up, Ber.
“Clouds break away , make room for sunshine
Birds take flight, dogs bark, cats fight”
Great poem and good morning to you!
I dont mind delegating at all. Yes this lady seems she had enough and took a stand. Thank you for your lovely kind words and good afternoon to you now night time here now im from Ireland
Your so very welcome! From Ireland! So cool…have a great day!
My morning comment disappeared! Wonderful poem I can still hear the door bang
Morning 23, Upon Reading Sonnet 116
Let me then to this morning of darkness
Admit there are others, those who I love.
Attend to their words, though reading harks less,
They hie to their tasks with thoughts which will move.
O, no! I must write, find the breath, the mark
Of instant perfection ere I reprove;
Is it a dream, or a goal, elusive lark?
My worth is in measure, so I must move.
Time is no fool, regardless its pallor,
Its unbending urgency o’er me looms,
The hour ticks by, proceeding with valor
I yield to no one, so near to doom.
If this be joy, then upon me shower
No doubts of my words reaching full flower.
Oh, this spoke to the very core of my poetic heart,
“If this be joy, then upon me shower
No doubts of my words reaching full flower.”
The same silent prayer issuing forth with desire this morning and all mornings. Beautiful.
And this, “Is it a dream, or a goal, elusive lark?”
I love the metaphor used in elusive lark! Thank you, ely the eel, for your words to brighten the day!
I wish I knew how one so young could have such beautiful thoughts and such mastery of words…you are the gift most writers long for – a caring reader
This touches my heart, ely! Thank you, so much for such kind words! Smiles to you!!
“The Rooster and the Wolf”
It seems a bit odd, which animals
Announce when the day dies, and is born.
The wolf howl heralds the moon-cast night
The cock crow calls the sun-sliced morn
Because of the wolf’s eerie emanation,
We think of the night as predatory,
Something dark and quietly shadow-slinking,
The canine hunter as a midnight allegory
And because of the rooster’s eruptive bray
That shatters the dawn’s calm, it
Makes us associate the break of day
With the pressing desire: I really want an omelet.
This is both beautiful and funny….love the twist at end of high minded philosophy !
Mission: Write a Morning Poem
“No,” my muse implies
as sun begins to rise
dawning on me –
poetry.
Off to take a morning walk with Keith.
Actually short powerful terrific poem…. Enjoy !
THE CRESCENT MOON RIDES
(c) 2012 – G. Smith
———————–
The crescent moon rides
above the angels and dogwood
of Oakland; the morning star
lifts birdsong over
the wall to greet the day and
sing the night gently to bed.
Every word perfectly placed. Beautiful!
Dear Moosehead,
Well, it’s morning
and my head hurts! Partying
with fellow Bleacher Creatures
seemed like a good idea when the
game was called off by rain. But oh my!
Not so sure now. We have to head home,
you drive will ya? The harpies arrive at Penn
Station at 2 – hopefully a little calmer for their
holiday. Our boys head for Texas – we can catch
it at the sports bar. Pick ya up at 6 – bring money
for wings and suds.
Yours the morning afterish
Ringo the Howler
Good morning neighbors on the street
Some have already been awake for hours
Morning papers read already dressed for the
Day waving gaily a bright eyed greet
There’s a Chev sometimes Raven often Jerry
There’s RJ usually so merry
JanetPlanet whirling on another coast
Khara with a new page to post
SE in contemplation of self and all things
Barbara somehow penning as she runs rings
Mosk will poke out in a paper bag on head
Marie, with a cup of tea and sympathy support right out of bed
De the nymphed mermaid who toes reach to the sea
Bruce as fresh faced smiling as can be
The street is stirring into morning late
Robert has kicked things off and turns to other….wait!
Good morning to you one and all
There’s Iain from across this pond to his
Parson penning like a whiz
Joseph dignified beyond all years is that a cravat!
Daniel Ari …hallooo what new medium today? Imagine that
Meena sweet budding rose
Hannah … Fresh in from the butterflied field arose
Out by the bandstand cup in hand surely Walt by the band
Sara V. will stroll about shortly sweetly calling out
Benjamin with elegance will take time to stop
Linda who from here to Germany back on a short hop
Paula on her way to the office out the window wave
This portion of the street cobblestones wetted with Muse dew
Among the chestnut blossoms floating in the air – just a few
Just a few … Each name writes upon my heart it’s April filigree
I stand in chilly breeze of morning stretch more to see
Ah there for example Jane and Janet and Jlynne and
Flower bowered Rosemary
And just leaning out is that Connie?
Wait there’s Patrica H. and M.
and Cara haikuing up to them
Just a few
Just a few
Halloo smiling Andrew
That caught my eye
On the cobble stoned street
As to this morning sleep in my eye
I call out good morning and goodbye
Already weighted with the guilt of those
I did not call by name …those who
line my heart and mind each morning through
To one To All
Good morning you!
Oh wait there’s Mad limericking away
Jane with another blossom from her garden
Oh no I’ve gotten myself in it
I must stop and return
I’ll be back another time
be sure to include with bright
shining name each in a sappy rhyme
But this dear PAD ers was you see
The sleep filled mumbled g’morning without coffee
Good morning to all
Happy poeming!
And of course now there is Jamal bringing tears to my eye
And Rsndi with fare so luscious of course with a MysticPoet eye
PoweUnit who is always that and more …ooh everyone waking here
As I must close (for now ) the door
Oh evensteven just ran by
Good morning!
Thanks Pearl, you are too kind !
Awww! Thanks, Pearl!!
Ah … thanks Pearl, I love that you’ve done this and am honoured to be mentioned!
Hey thanks for the mention. This poem is dedicated to the PAD. SWEEEEEEEEEEEEETTTT!!
Good work Pearl.
Oh, good one Pearl, and top of the morning to you! (A bit late now, so make that all mornings.)
Thank you, Pearl!! So thoughtful!!
It is the custom on St George’s day (today) in Cataluña for men to give a rose and a girl to give a book to their loved ones
Feliç Sant Jordi
I awoke with a jolt
you woke up with a sigh
you gave me a smile
I winked my eye
The sunshine beamed
the sky bright blue
I looked to the heavens
grateful for you
We had coffee with kisses
and went for a walk
holding hands in silence
too in love to talk
We ate breakfast in the shade
at a pavement café
croissants and coffee
while we dreamed away
We walked to where stalls
lined the broad street
and each bought a gift
symbolic and sweet
You bought a book
and I bought a rose
we exchanged without words
though I kissed your nose
Wandering on through
our beloved city
we saw people alone
and thought it a pity
The morning drifted on
towards its close
I whispered “Happy St. Georges”
and once more kissed your nose
It was your turn to whisper
as we sat in a tavern
“Be my Sant Jordi
and slay all my dragons!”
Iain
The Morning After
The morning after
is routine enough.
As expected
I get the kids up for school
trip over backpacks
try to get breakfasts ready
and find mates for mate-less sneakers
which are scattered around the house.
What I don’t expect
is this terrible ache
that comes in waves
at unpredictable moments.
Who knew
that a de-squeakered, half-chewed toy
could make me feel your absence,
tangible as a tear.
RJ, I about burst into tears when I read your poem. My Weim is now 14 & I avoid thinking about this at all costs, to the point of sticking my fingers in my ears and saying,, “Lalalalalalalala” whenever my S.O. Starts with, “You know she’s had a good life…”
Awwww RJ so beautifully written.. all who know think they know but they only commiserate your Corky your loss too -even for us well intentioned ones – too great….
Oh, RJ. I’m so sorry. My heart aches for you today.
“tangible as a tear” is gorgeous, and the perfect, perfect description.
RJ, so so sorry for your loss.
Perfectly said. i’ve cried harder over my pets than over some relatives.
More hugs to you, RJ. I remember when we had to have our bull mastiff put down … my husband cried nearly the entire weekend.
Still Waiting for the Sun to Rise
nights of chilled dreams
electric heat & plush piles of soft soothing blankets
a flannel cocoon, a warm womb
an unwed flame to peruse printed text
awaiting the sunrise
to melt the frost on my heart
silence, night’s latent currency
wrapped in furled splendor
horizontal posturepedic pose of gentle imaginings
luxuriating in treasured quietude
backstroking through pure stillness
still waiting for the sun to rise
the house it speaks
my stomach growls
I hear the creaks
and shriek with vowels
Of all the things I loved so much
my beddy bye and bye
soft and warm as a lover’s touch
please catch me when I die
O’ to thwart this sleepless escarpment, this onerous void
when only night’s gloomy shadow will hear my cries
still waiting for the sun to rise
~ Randy Bell ~
Oh my goodness…this poem just drips…lucious want to eat it for breakfast … Too fattening!
i got to “horizontal posturepedic pose of gentle imaginings” and had to nestle back into my bed….
Blurry Verse
4:58am
that’s what time
you gotta get up in
the morning
in Nevada
to post the 40th poem.
…and seriously,
who’s ready to write by then?
.
Oh De… lovely and crisp but so unfair why there must be a way of handling the time better for all of us scattered like petals in the wind across the globe…. Ideas!?
Thank you, Ladies. I don’t see it as “unfair,” Pearl, any more than the timezones themselves. Just a little frustrating, like daylight savings.
nothing as sad as
conflation of homonym
morning and mourning
Oh, yes! Good one!
Much aporeciated Marie!:)
Sleepy Head
They shared a room
she at six and he at three
siblings different as could be
she rose with heart pounding
In her throat, eyes darting for
from dreams to what might now come
He woke and smiled a sweetly dopey grin
stretched his toes, scratched soft behind
and began to loudly hum
GOOD MORNING TO YOU
GOOD MORNING TO YOU
as she tried with every magical
thought stored for such a day
to will this ridiculous intruder far away…
My 6-year-old daughter and 3-year-old son share a room, and each morning begins very much like this! I especially like the part where he wakes up and scratches his soft behind.
Maybe there is some Jungian archetype playing out among generations of young siblings;)
Then
He would roll close burrowing into her as
though if one point of his body lost contact
he would flounder inconsolable desolate and
utterly alone shipwrecked on chilled shores of
a newly empty alien day unless clutching familiar
skin of her frangipangied sweet scented harbor
safely morninged
Oh, this is beautiful, Pearl.
Thank you ina !
Gorgeous.
Aww …delighted you enjoyed
Before I even peek at the prompt, I want to give kudos to two late posts last night:
Daniel Ari’s “Camping” and Buddah’s “Stones.” If you haven’t read them yet, they are worth a click on yesterday.
The Olive-sided Flycatcher
Good morning, sir.
I see you are watching over your kingdom
from your evergreen throne,
eyeing those millions of insects
scattering the golden glows of our sun
with their mirrored wings,
a fog bank of food on the floor of your forest.
You look confused, sir.
Do you want to gorge yourself?
Do you want to indulge in this smorgasbord?
The wife and kids?
Ah, domestic responsibilities
back at your tree, your reason to be.
She doesn’t care about your internal conflicts?
Whose woman does?
Join the club, sir.
Your children dressed in hand-me-down knickers
and poorly fitting caps
don’t really care where the next meal comes from.
Swoop down, sir!
Dive with the majesty of the woodland beast.
Take from the table of life.
There’s time for partying later.
Whoops, three beers!
The Swallow and The Lark
To each his or her own
some singing songs and smiling
as the stretch contented until proven
Otherwise –
Others sit unruffling feathers
sleep filled eyes blinking in
outrage at the catapulted brightness
dumping them unceremoniously
into this already jarring day
One can crane its neck and take
Sweet flight leaving a trail of crystal
footprints in the air
Another will linger slow to lift off
slipping on the first sheltered branch
Only if thrown together by the wind
of circumstance or misplaced faith
in their easy blending
will there be screeching
Morning Pearl! I see you are showing you beauty early this morning. This is a gem. Wonderfully crafted.
Oooh thank you Benjamin…high praise indeed
much appreciated
“crystal footprints in the air” – Oh, I love this!
Miss Morning
In the womb of the dawn
Morning awakens
With fierce arising
From the depths of night unkept
With bounteous hope in her ray
Gathering Spring in her step
Splashing emergent newness
Nascent quickening day
Scattering darkness
Piercing forest, leaf, limb
Fully pacing, hastening her way
Racing for miles
Smiling and giving smiles away
Oooh …. Beauty…Beauty….Miss Morning.. Lovely….
Love it! the increasing tempo to the flourishing finish! Fantastic!
Thanks a million Pearl, Janet Ruth.
Lovely imagery here, Benjamin.
Jump Start
“stop that!”
the startled mother
would quietly screech
needing only to
look at the sleeping
child to cause eyelids
to snap open fast as
window shades
and the child to roll in
one blurred motion
from sleep to stand
small bare feet thumped
on hard floor
wide eyed
upright
small heart
pounding in her
reddening readied face
Hah! i had this child! Very visual.
Calamity in the Wee Hours
The Enchanted Cottage has been battered
by winter storms, ice, sleet and snow
Come spring, the aging edifice that holds
our love and contentment, all warm and snugly,
has developed age spots on its crown.
As the rain pours down, wind blowing, whipping
all that comes between us and outside,
you hear, in the early hours before tea strengthens
the soul and the work of our day begins,
the steady drip, drip, drip of water
finding a new root off the roof and into
the heart of our cottage of enchantment.
Oooh ” our cottage of enchantment”!
ooh, so lovely.
Waking to find
no one is here
precious.
Get out of bed
dress
walk down the squeaky stairs
open the front door
and step out to feel
new morning air.
Looking across the street
smiling at the sight of
the old man, humpbacked
and slow
who runs every day
the perimeter of the park.
Leaning elbows on
the porch railing,
I take in the beauty
of the dark
cloudy sky
speaking morning
through the sun
appearing as bright starry
rays shining above clouds.
Down the steps
lightly stepping so as not to interrupt
morning being born
I turn to my garden,
also in infancy
finding peace in the
small herbs and flowers
checking for changes
growth
buds showing a glimpse of color.
A neighbor walks by
we exchange good mornings
and he says
“It’s looking good, very nice.”
My thank you smiles.
As usual excellent!
Thank you, Pearl. I only wish I had the time to reply to all the posts. Grandkids are here 6:30 am to about 7 pm, then I am so, so tired.
Oh my! That is a FULLLLL DAY
There was a time
when waking waiting infant
reached with satin hands
to suck drinking me in
filling the light with
the singing coalescing particles
of my unequivocal frank necessity
Yep. I remember those times, too. Well done!
Oooh thanks Posmic…!
“What is the Opposite of Insight?”
Cloud cover
diffuses
early morning sun,
robbing me
of the interplay
between light
and shadow.
This gray light
turns
my morning window
inward
reflecting
tired eyes
without insight.
Terrific …love the implication of “outsight”
Dawning
Numbers float in reckless
Uninhibited as yet abandon
Tickling taunting mortality
Until the cool side of the pillow
Comforts with its calm proffer
Of alternatives unsuitability
a political slogan
my daughter
the eye of the world
a pink slit in
twilight
the exhalation
of songbirds
like sunday breakfast together
a morning poem cliche
Ooh I fear too many of those spilled by me on this page… I’ll bring back a roll of paper towels (sorry a cloth..,watch out for the earth) to sop them up!
Reaction
That night, Knowing she loves butterflies;
He promised her a visit in lovely disguise,
In doubt that he might, she bought,
Knowing he adores, a sample boat;
Yet she never believed in his fairytale.
In the morning, she caught a rare butterfly,
And pinned it onto the white plastic sail,
Then she began to cry, annoyed by his lie.
Jamal, how heartbreaking! How sad that we often do not see what is real. Well done!
EXQUISITE … bringer of real tears…. WONDERFUL!
Thanks you both for kind words and time.
Morning Blessing
M ay the sun shine brightly in your soul. May the
O thers in your life be well and whole. May you
R each the greatest height and get good sleep at
N ight. May you reach every dream and every goal. May your
I clinations be pure and true. May your
N eeds be met and problems few. May your days be very
G ood and may you do the things you should. May you
B e happy as you start this day anew. May your
L ove be like a warm spring rain. May you be
E nergetic and free of pain. May you
S hare and be blessed and get your needed rest. May you
S imply feel joy with no restrain. May your day be
I nteresting and sweet. May nobody step upon your feet. May you
N ot be down and grumpy. May your ways be smooth not bumpy. May
G od bless you and I repeat. May the sun shine brightly in your soul…
Connie…great job! What a lovely way to begin my day…thank you!
What a blessing you are to me, Connie! RIGHT BACK ATCHA!
(And I want this framed and in my kitchen.)
Sometimes we need a little something special to start our day, Your poem did it for me, Thank You for this wonderful blessing!!
So sweet! I adore the prosaic wishes fir no one stepping on my feet and not being grumpy .. shine and poem on!
Fun read to start out a new morning.
AWW! This cheered me greatly this morning.
First coffee beckons,
aroma and flavor
are her saving grace.
There is no life in my face,
and just a trace elsewhere.
I stare at the dip until
that first sip is ready.
Her strength is heady
and she opens me to a new
day. The best part of waking up.
Get your ass in my cup!
Lol! Walt this is hilarious and stunning.
My sentiments exactly, Well Done !!!
Oh yes!
MORNING HAS BROKEN
the fog won’t lift for a while yet,
I won’t smile yet for another few hours.
the wind this morning howls and creaks
this old house. the spouse is sound asleep
and I’m keeping vigil over my piece
of God’s little acre. it will take her a couple
hours before her day begins. I’m in
anticipation of an interesting day; they say
we’re in for our first major winter storm
of spring. something’s wrong;and I’ve got
the strong feeling that morning is broken.
Great one! Yes, something is definitely broken! Pennsylvania is getting clobbered with 1foot of snow in April??? When I heard that on the news, I couldn’t believe it. I was in the UP for 5 winters; there you could expect snow in April…and May, June and July! But, Pennsylvania?!
Seriously? One foot of snow in April? That’s crazy! I thought Ohio was bad.
Keith pointed that out to me last night, and we were talking about POOR YOU!
Love “morning is broken.” Nothing sleepy about your muse in the morning, mister.
Yes Marie…you got here first! “morning is broken” ! Great!
Breaking Dawn
I wish I knew
how to write in the dark
in that becoming time
between night
and the morn.
It calls me from sleep
and insists i come away
to put my wandering brains say
on sheets and sheets of
pages and pages of
blankness, waiting
to become ,too.
It is pregnant
and
I must labor.
Oh, how beautiful! “it is pregnant and I must labor” Yes!!! Wonderful poem!
Yes, Linda, I’m stalking your comments.
I too connect with “It is pregnant and I must labor.” What an extraordinarily descriptive and SPOT ON way to express it! A keeper!
“that time between night and morn”. Yes that blankness to be filled…beautifully done
“I must labor” – wonderful!
NOT A MORNING POEM
First thing poems fall a bit short,
bleary eyed things that ring
hollow, finding it hard to swallow
and my focus is “iffy”. I used
to write in a jiffy, but my sleep
keeps me from starting in a sprint.
I write better at night, I am not
a morning poet, but i’ll bet
you’ll never really know it.
I wish I could write so “iffy” first thing in the morning, Walt! Your poems are always wonderful – morning or not!
Here, here, hear, hear!!
I agree
with you
with Linda
and Marie!
Good morning heartache, sit down
In early morning hours when dawn rises on my sleeplessness
I feel the sun crest like a grapefruit
puckering her crimson face against a threaded firmament,
silver and sepia, and picture
the end of a lover’s quarrel terminated in coffee cups,
small cloud white mugs on bright yellow saucers—
when she sets the places at her table she wears a pale blue shift,
translucent down to her saffron skin,
milky bones, and, glimpsing quick his empty chair and sniffing
the air to find the scent of him no longer there,
crashes the sunny saucer up against the wall—she heaps
miseries upon her breakfast plate
in the dusty moments before this citric heat
flushes my face with waking.
Khara, this is just beautiful and very moving!
Indeed. Khara truly makes words sing.
Khara…you glow!
beautiful!
Gorgeous, Khara. Love the grapefruit image and the citric heat.
Two and fourteen am
on the west coast
too early in the morning
for all save sleeping.
Good night.
Sleep well…sweet poem
I get a kick out of all your (and other east coasters) comments about ‘hard to write in the morning’. For those of you who are night owls and like to write between sunset and sunrise – I could point out that the Promps come out at 2 AM on the West coast – Ideal time to write
and we do not have any snow except in the mountains 
You’re welcome to come-on-over.
Oh I notice (now) PKP connects with Pearl.
The meaning of Marjory comes from Margaret
Margaret means Pearl.
Hi there name-sister.
Sweet gem! Name-Sister ….
!
I am just learning about various forms of poetry, and find them interesting and lead to a better understanding of writing on my part. At the bottom of DAY 20, Michael G wrote a TRI-FALL – a form I was not acquainted with – but found intriguing. So I tried a few, in as far as I could understand its makeup, based on that one sampling.
Childhood – the morning of our lives.
ISLAND (a TRI-FALL)
Childhood on an island
sea ‘round it
a paradise all can explore
waves roll up on the sand
deposit
shells, fish, crabs and treasures galore.
Sand castles towering
moat surround
filled with sea water from a can
old pirates stand back fearing
three bells sound
toy sailor is now in command.
Small sailing boats are built
of drift wood
to carry sailors out to sea,
to ride the waves and tilt
so they could
bring home bounty. How rich they’ll be.
Marjory, Marie Elena Good and I had presented the form at POETIC BLOOMINGS (http://poeticbloomings.com) where Michael had done amazing work with the Tri-Fall form. It is indeed an intriguing undertaking. More examples of the form can be found:
http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/04/18/in-form-poet-the-tri-fall/
Your piece above is a good work using the TRI-FALL.
Not familiar with form..familiar with beautifully poetry…this is!
Thank you PKP – I always appreciate your comments and encouragement (to me and others) MMT
Gurr – I am not posting ‘too fast’ the system is receiving ‘Too slow”
So sweet my pleasure
Hi, Marjory. You can read more about the Tri-fall form here:
http://poeticbloomings.com/2012/04/18/in-form-poet-the-tri-fall/
(and join a great weekly prompt on Sundays, if you’re so inclined). Poetic Bloomings is run by Marie Elena and Walt, wonderful writers and great encouragers who post here, as well. There’s a great community to be had over there.
It’s a new form to me, but I would say this is a fine example.
Thanks so much, De!
Marjory, this form was not easy for me, and you nailed it beautifully! Of course you are more than welcome at Poetic Bloomings (as are ALL poets of all age and experience). Here is a link to our Welcome, if you are interested: http://poeticbloomings.com/welcome-to-poetic-bloomings/ .
Hi Marie Elena,
Yes, I look forward to checking out Poetic Bloomings.
The form was a challenge – I love challenges like that.
I have three more Tri-falls written and looking for a prompt they might fit under
It’s funny, I posted De’s message first thing this A.M. and I’m stuck awaiting moderation? Thanks for carrying the water De. We start our second year next Sunday. You’re gonna wanna get there!
Thank you for the comment and the link.
You’re welcome!
Excellent job, Majory!