I can’t really decide if I’m a morning person or a night owl. Or maybe both. Or neither.
At any rate, most of my poetry this past week was written at 11:00 p.m. or later, when I was just desperate to write something before bed. So I ended up with a bunch of tiny free verse sketches, which isn’t such a bad thing I guess.
04/21, meditations on an alarm clock
beep beep beep
rhythmic, like skeletal song
intruding on floating grey clouds
roll, stumble, bend,
clumsy fingers swiping,
buying comfort with
step, tumble, back to bed
drifting, slumber is sweet. but
i want to be awake when
also 04/21 (catching up)
it streams in through the blinds
stripes across the laptop.
bright promise, fragile hope
glistens on coffee,
runs across the open book
morning’s new mercies.
04/23, of a tree on the way home from church
it doesn’t belong here
windswept, branches pointing east,
cut from a grassy field
(somewhere near a lonesome highway)
behind tilting chain-link fence,
in the shadow of the overpass
blocks of concrete,
and a lonesome, verdant sentinel.