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Tag: morning

Dawn Patrol: deibhidhe

Published on February 23, 2017

Soon the sound that breaks the day
comes to chase our sleep away;
and the darkest dreams night grew
blink from black into lighter blue.

The world, barely recognized
through half-open, hazy eyes,
wakes slow with us, its warm glow
buried below the pillows.

Arise again and don your shield,
the ancient weapons you wield
against the dumb drones that come
reeking of rum and humdrum.

Be conscious now! You must choose.
Do not linger, or you lose
this moment’s span; if you can
still stand, battle is at hand.

Until the sound that stills the day
comes quietly to end the fray,
fight on fearless, king or pawn,
at every dawn, until you’re gone.

23 FEB 2017

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Morning Dogs: choka

Published on February 8, 2017

The scrabble of claws
across the linoleum:
waking with the dogs.
At the first hint of morning,
they are ready to go.

Forget your sleeping.
The moment your body stirs,
their insistence starts.
Outside, outside! they clamor,
until you do their bidding.

Resistance is futile:
bedcovers pulled from your eyes,
the morning sun blinds.
You need no alarm clock’s ring
once these furry kids awake.

02 FEB 2017

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At Dawn: alba or aubade

Published on January 5, 2017

At dawn
the mist still lingers on the lawn:
the shortening shade, like Avalon,
seeks wisps of cloud to linger on
but soon surrenders, and is gone.

At dawn
the world, by inches, cracks its eyes:
and in the place of lullabies
begins to sound the hue and cry,
its hustle-bustle of disguise.

At dawn
the sweet and tender touch of light
begins the slow ascent of sight
and sends to shadows, warm and bright,
the last reminders of the night.

At dawn
again, I hear the sigh
of breathing, gentle and nearby,
and thank the earth and sea and sky
for life and love and you and I.

05 JAN 2017

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How It Goes

Published on January 12, 2015

Early in the morning,
right before the break of day,
standing at the transom
one eye turned to either way,
soaking in the silence
of the crisp December air,
trying to remember
what he did to get back there.

How does it go?
Once you pay it no attention
it just slips away
and you don’t even know.

Sometimes he’ll remember
there was sour with the sweet,
between months of famine
having just enough to eat,
learning from the hunger
what it really means to need,
finding an abundance
is not ever guaranteed.

How does it go?
When a little taste will get you
what you gonna do
if you can’t get no more?

Early in the morning,
right before the rooster crows,
watching that first sunlight
break the cold horizon’s nose,
soaking in the silence
as the ice begins to melt,
trying to remember
where he was when the hand was dealt.

How does it go?
Once you head in a direction
every other way
becomes a told you so.

12 JAN 2015

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Arise, New Day

Published on December 13, 2008

Arise, new day, your way much like the last,
one footstep forward further from the past;
and in your wake leave only settling dust
that would try to preserve because it must,
or else subside to shadows that soon fade
as from their brittle bones new day is made.

Arise, new day, your time has surely come!

Your heartbeat echoes last night’s funeral drum,
and pulses with the force of health and light
along the pale horizon, left to right.

Arise, new day, waste not a single breath;
lest you, too, slip complacent into death.

12 DEC 2008

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The First Day

Published on November 30, 2006

If this is the first day of what life remains,
who cares if there’s sunshine or thunder and rain?
Both have their own virtues, each pleasure and pain;
though different, a good deal the same.

If this is the first day of what there is left,
what good is my grieving, or acting bereft
because things so far haven’t all gone my way?
What matters is always today.

Yesterday’s always a moment behind,
tomorrow a moment too soon;
hold on too tightly, and you’ll only find
January turns into June.
Each brand new morning is unto itself,
it needs not a calendar name.
Waste just one moment, and your life is past
with no one but yourself to blame.

If this is the worst day to happen so far,
what good is me blaming some unlucky stars
or looking for answers where none need be found
beyond my two feet on the ground?

If this is the best day that will ever be,
what good is it to keep it locked up for me
when part of the reason it turned out that way
is saving tomorrow for after today?

Yesterday’s always a moment behind,
tomorrow a moment too soon;
hold on too tightly, and you’ll only find
January turns into June.
Each brand new morning is unto itself,
it needs not a calendar name.
Waste just one moment, and your life is past
with no one but yourself to blame.

If this is the first day, and what’s come before
is just one more wave on an infinite shore,
which part of creation should I try to blame?
The end and beginning are one and the same.

30 NOV 2006

for James Taylor

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No Surprise This Morning: an alba or aubade

Published on August 4, 2006

That morning comes again is no surprise;
the laws of physics have not been withheld,
nor has the motion of the planets, if
those laws are merely whims, been held at bay.
No vengeful demons or vain deities
have paused the world in darkness for their play.

No, the edge of space where I sit has again
been turned and tilted to its burning star;
while elsewhere on the globe, lights flicker out
and someone borrows my fear of the night
(which is not trepidation of mere dark,
but rather, the unknown outside the cave
[or box, as we prefer to call it now,
since we are civilized a thousand-fold]
that waits for us, like some divine pop quiz
on that damned chapter we forgot to read).

So, morning comes again; and every time,
despite all evidence to prove it will,
and though our own experience and sense
would tend to ease our worry on this tack,
yet we stand dumb still, starstruck at the sight,
in shock that our blind faith
caused it to be.

04 AUG 2006

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