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. 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.

  2. 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.

  3. 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.

  4. 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?

  5. 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.

  6. 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.

  7. 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!

  8. 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

  9. 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.

  10. 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.

  11. 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

  12. 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.

  13. 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.

  14. 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

  15. 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.

  16. 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.

  17. 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

  18. 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.

  19. 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?

  20. 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.

  21. 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.

  22. 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.

  23. 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

  24. 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

  25. 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

  26. 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.

  27. 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.

  28. 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

  29. 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.

  30. 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

  31. 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

  32. 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.

  33. 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?

  34. 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.

  35. 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

  36. 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.

  37. 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.

  38. 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

  39. 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