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2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 23

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.


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334 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 23

  1. foodpoet

    Morning Thermal

    Wing flash
    Blue to blue
    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

  2. Marian O'Brien Paul

    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.

  3. AC Leming

    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.

  4. Christod


    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.

  5. Marcia Gaye

    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.

  6. po


    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.

  7. Anders Bylund

    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?

  8. gtabasso

    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.

  9. deringer1


    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.

  10. alotus_poetry

    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!

  11. Arrvada

    Spring Mornings
    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

  12. Yolee

    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.

  13. Pat Carroll Marcantel


    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.

  14. Caren

    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

  15. cam45237

    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.

  16. Mike Bayles

    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.

  17. Jane Beal - sanctuarypoet.net

    “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”


    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

  18. Jaywig

    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.

  19. Werewolf of Oz

    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.

  20. uneven steven

    In the twilight of my youth

    walking alone
    through a field
    dreaming of the newness
    of spring
    with a too, too careful
    over fallen branches
    crooked in the twistings
    of life
    the harsh rustling of
    under each of my
    well intentioned
    a faltering stumbling from
    into bright dawning sun
    glistening dew
    her calling
    my name
    from the distance
    blond hair
    the morning
    in rising

  21. randalljweiss

    “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.

  22. Jane Shlensky

    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?

  23. maxie2


    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.

  24. Sharon

    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.

  25. Catherine Lee

    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.

  26. deedeekm

    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

  27. PassionateQuill

    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

  28. Michael Grove

    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

  29. LCaramanna

    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.

  30. Kendall A. Bell

    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.

  31. Buddah Moskowitz

    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

    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

    I dwell in this
    quiet and slow moment,
    until clarity materializes.

    Then, the barking begins

    shallow and soft,

    then louder


    which signals the
    end of my morning

  32. cstewart

    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.

  33. Michael Grove

    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

  34. seingraham

    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

  35. Lana Walker

    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

    awaiting its

    but not
    from me.

  36. Sara McNulty

    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?

  37. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    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.

  38. omavi

    “… 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

  39. Cameron Steele

    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.

  40. taylor graham


    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.

  41. just Lynne

    “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

  42. hurtin-heart

    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

  43. Janet Rice Carnahan


    If Robert gave a poet,
    A “morning” prompt,
    The poet would have to have
    If an idea came to,
    It would have to be,
    If it had to be,
    It would have to be,
    Once it was,
    It would also have to be,
    Once it was,
    The poet could,
    Write about it,
    Being finished,
    Which, completes the poem,
    Following the prompt,
    That Robert gave,

    Could have been an idea about,
    With the poet singing Beatle songs,
    A thought about,
    Poet could watch Star Wars,
    Instead the message was clear about,
    Because of the “morning” prompt,
    That Robert gave,
    Which, led the poet to have ideas about,
    Arriving at the thought of,
    “Morning Prayer”,
    Which, is a Yoga move,
    Meaning the poet would need to do,
    Before writing the poem about the,
    Which, means she salutes,
    For reminding her to do,
    Focusing on the “morning prayer” exercise on the DVD,
    Before she writes the,
    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!!

  44. Bruce Niedt

    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.

  45. Domino

    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

  46. Joseph Harker

    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.

  47. zevd2001

    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

    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

  48. JRSimmang

    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.

  49. competitivewriter

    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.

  50. wolfbolz

    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.

  51. Jackie Casey

    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:
    Sits he quiet ’til doomsday falls.
    Breathes he on my eyelids toxic,
    He knows my charade, so he bawls.

  52. Rosangela

    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.

  53. Marjory MT


    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.”


  54. Brian Slusher


    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.

  55. Walt Wojtanik


    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.

  56. Dan Collins

    Flick of the Wrist

    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

  57. RASlater

    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

  58. Marcia Gaye

    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.

  59. DanielAri


    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.”


  60. Jacqueline Hallenbeck

    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.

  61. Jane Shlensky

    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.

  62. lionmother

    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
    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.

  63. Miss R.

    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.

  64. drwasy


    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

  65. eljulia

    PAD THERAPY day 23


    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
    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
    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.

  66. robinaburrows

    Secret Lovers
    By Robin A. Burrows

    are more brilliant
    when nights
    hold your soul;
    dawn a fable
    whispered of
    beneath blue skies.

    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.

  67. RASlater

    Frozen Moment


    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

  68. Paoos69

    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

  69. claudsy


    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

  70. claudsy

    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

  71. posmic

    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.

  72. Margot Suydam

    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

  73. Andrew Kreider


    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.

  74. Dyson McIllwain

    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!

  75. J.lynn Sheridan

    (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.

  76. Beth Rodgers


    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

    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

    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.

  77. Michelle Hed

    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.

  78. pmwanken


    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?)

    where dreams end.

    (Now…where’s the coffee?)

    P. Wanken

  79. De Jackson


    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.


  80. JanetRuth

    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

  81. Marianv

    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!

  82. MiskMask


    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.

  83. Katrin

    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

  84. cindishipley

    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.

    1. De Jackson

      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.

      1. De Jackson

        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.

  85. mschied

    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

  86. Nancy Posey

    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.

    1. De Jackson

      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!

  87. Arike

    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

  88. Earl Parsons


    Alarm starts to buzz
    Soft at first, then louder
    Wife says, “10 more minutes”

    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

  89. De Jackson

    Slant(-eyed) Rhyme

               still isn’t a good time
                       for stirring my muse.


                 but they
                                c o n f u s e d.


  90. Hannah


    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

  91. ceeess

    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

  92. PKP

    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…

  93. Nancy Posey

    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

  94. JanetRuth

    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

  95. Walt Wojtanik


            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.

    1. pmwanken

      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!

  96. Ber

    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

    1. Hannah

      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!

      1. Ber

        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

  97. ely the eel

    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.

    1. Hannah

      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!

      1. ely the eel

        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

  98. Imaginalchemy

    “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.

  99. tunesmiff

    (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.

  100. Iain Douglas Kemp

    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

  101. PKP

    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!

    1. PKP

      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

  102. Iain Douglas Kemp

    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!”


  103. RJ Clarken

    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.

    1. AC Leming

      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…”

    2. PKP

      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…. :(

  104. Mystical-Poet

    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 ~

  105. De Jackson

    Blurry Verse

             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?


    1. PKP

      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!?

  106. PKP

    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
    as she tried with every magical
    thought stored for such a day
    to will this ridiculous intruder far away…

    1. posmic

      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.

  107. PKP


    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

  108. Marie Elena

    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.

  109. PowerUnit

    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!

  110. PKP

    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

  111. Benjamin Thomas

    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

  112. PKP

    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
    small heart
    pounding in her
    reddening readied face

  113. Linda Rhinehart Neas

    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.

  114. emmajordan

    Waking to find
    no one is here
    Get out of bed
    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
    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.

  115. PKP

    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

  116. Jerry Walraven

    “What is the Opposite of Insight?”

    Cloud cover
    early morning sun,
    robbing me
    of the interplay
    between light
    and shadow.
    This gray light
    my morning window
    tired eyes
    without insight.

  117. PKP


    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

  118. Jamal Abboud


    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.

  119. Connie Peters

    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…

  120. Walt Wojtanik

    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!

  121. Walt Wojtanik


    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.

    1. Linda Rhinehart Neas

      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?!

  122. ellanytdavve

    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
    I must labor.

  123. Walt Wojtanik


    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.

  124. Khara H.

    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.

      1. Marjory MT

        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.

  125. Marjory MT

    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.

    Childhood on an island
    sea ‘round it
    a paradise all can explore
    waves roll up on the sand
    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.

      1. Marjory MT

        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” :)

        1. Marjory MT

          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 :)