Morning Poems

Boy, the morning pages do pile up!  I spent some time this morning going through the ones I flagged to revisit, this batch mostly being poems.  I put post-its on pages I think are worth keeping because I toss everything else after a few months (not wanting my kids having to go through the volumes of it after I'm gone).   It's funny - so much of the time I think of my morning pages as just a bunch of garbage writing, just a string of blah-blah-blah. But then, like today, I see how much I'd thought was worth keeping, and I'm surprised at how much there is.  It reminds me of the stories of the women like Psyche and Vasilisa having to sort piles of seeds.

 So, here are some of the rescued morning poems (fresh and only briefly edited).

Morning Pages

  

The studio is filled with

Hawaiian slack key music.

The last cut on the CD

cues up.

I am trying to complete

three long-hand pages

of morning writing.

There is no inspiration 

arising.

What is here? 

An empty mug, 

now drained 

of cinnamon tea,

flickering candles on my

writing table, 

a fully overcast sky

outside the window.

Another morning.

Another chance.

What feels so old and rote

might feel like a gift, a blessing.

Ah, the things we take for granted

before they disappear

forever.

Contradictions

I am spinning in

the contradictions

of this world of

blood and bile,

pus and decay,

of violence and war

and the greed

of the elites.

And yet,

and yet,

this Spring morning

dawns with sunlight

pouring down the avenue below,

lifting the mist from the hills, and

brightening all the greens of

the redwoods, pines and maples,

the vines twining around my deck.

It is still, then the

breeze arises in

the cloudless blue.

Suddenly there is  

a burst of bird flight,

circling, circling, circling,

lifting up the morning.

A New Day

Because you are old,

            you easily fall

            into stale thoughts and habits.

But this day is opening to you –

            the sun washes down the avenue below this hill,

            the cloudless sky and cool air cover the city,

            the chickens are clucking in the pen,

            the vine’s new green growth is waving

            in the breeze right outside the window.

You are alive, alive, alive.

At any moment, the little birds nestled

            in the pine trees on the avenue

            will take off and circle

            in a tiny murmuration,

            marking the morning’s arrival.