The Room Where Morning Slept

 

Perhaps I shouldn't be here at dawn
nudging the stone mattress, watching
morning blossom a hint of inspiration.
Sometimes a glow isn't enough

The lavender outside the window
staring purple eyed at bird songs
signals the beginning of another day
There was no indication last night
would not stay, that the storm would
polish off the blackened sky

 

I lay claim to this as to why I did not sleep
Now dawn looks weary and my eyes
fold into a professor's scrunity, a squint
of comprehension, the day a torch
lying before me barely flickering

I am a person of inward saluatations
Perhaps you cannot hear me bluster
my loose ship into the universe
but I am drinking coffee and humming
as the aging fan drones in habitual effort
slowly flowering in a turn of dull blades

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

I agreee with Ken; nothing is out of place, nothing seems even remotely forced in pace, tone, or imagery. Anything this good that looks this easy is woefully difficult work, and you need the kind of wand that a certain Mr. Potter would forsake all to possess.

[Ken Simm.]

The feelings in dawn time seem to extend as colour fades slowly back into the world. You have captured the myriad feelings perfectly in these poems. They pace themselves through the times, the colours and the feelings in just the right amount and at just the right pace.