Home » Posts tagged 'morning' (Page 14)
I’ve missed you
said the morning
to the man
at the top of the hill.
I’m so sorry
said the man
to the rising sun.
Don’t be sorry, be present
said the wind.
We’ve missed you, that’s all
said the trees.
And we’re glad that you are here
said the sun.
Thank you
said the man
at the top of the hill.
Now go
said the morning
there’s so much more for you to see.
So the man began
his descent into the valley
this time
with only his shadow trailing behind.
When Hemingway writes
coffee
but doesn’t really
write about coffee
I crave it
Taste it
I smell it’s sorrow
And pour a cup
As the morning becomes I
And I the morning’s passing
All is quiet yet again
and I know what I must do
as if tasting coffee
for the first time
8:52
I drink slowly, carefully
cautiously
while sunlight enters the room
and from my window I can see
I am nothing
I am nothing more than
what I choose to be
and what I’ve chosen
this morning
is peace.
July 4th 2019
in a room
with the morning
by my bedside
waking to the light
of emptiness,
looking
west.
it comes in the night
in the morning while waking
it comes with a fright
sometimes without thinking
turns on like a light
or out somewhere drinking
when it does
it soothes with delight.
it comes after noon
in Ubers and cars
it comes now in June
in twilight and bars
I sit with the moon
and contemplate stars
when it does
I’m nearer than far.
it comes in the mourning
and pages of books
it comes without warning
in passerby who
look quiet and boring
it comes quite aloof
when it does, I’m
up on the roof.
it can not be forced
like lovers divorced
it does what it does
with little remorse
it comes like the wind
a powerful force
when it does
I can’t quite explain.
I knew I didn’t dream it,
as nausea fills the morning.
Sleeping well as a ranch hand,
counting sheep all afternoon.
I guess a boy can’t cry wolf
anymore, even when he’s dying?
I look at you
like an old friend
someone I haven’t talked to in a while
and with enough time together
you find it odd
how good it feels
to speak again, and again
in the morning and at night
I’m the lull of mid afternoon
taking pieces of my certainty that aren’t yours to have
leading me to remember, why
we stopped speaking
in the first place.
Though you know I’ll listen when you call.
I couldn’t be that cruel.
In the morning
before the sun
when the birds speak
and the city wakes,
after a good night
of drink,
the cure all — water
by my bedside,
I listen
to the sweet symphony
in my guts.
Creative bursts,
like drunkard
bar stool
thoughts,
I can actually do something…
That by morning
are swept away,
like confetti
on New Year’s Day.
Words Of An Average White Male 