May morning cacophonies never quiet.
Doves coos, repetitive sharp whistles
rising and falling sounded by robins,
who seem to say, "cheer up, cheer up,
cheerily, cheer up." Jays shrieking
whatever warnings they shriek. Chirps,
tweets, titterings of so many more, combine
in crazy compilations of some
orchestra without their conductor
forever warming up days. I do not own
feathers but all my body hairs do stand
on end, flitting as if they were. Then,
woodpecker taps against hollow
termite ridden tree sounding like
the strike of a conductor's baton.

Nothing comes together. A symphony
never starts, at least not one of any
great composer's. Just the greatest.
I spring from my nest. I do not know music.
I hear it and am it. These mornings move
me to ditter about, find my way,
peck my morning niblings, feel dawn
dress me in sun, make me lust
life adorned with feathers. How
possibility wings bring.

From flock to flock, I dare to fit in.
Learn new mating dances.

Isnt it amazing? We feel missing someone more than them being at our side.

The anguish of their absence invades our dreams & they're in our thoughts well before we even open our eyes.

Why aren't smiles more powerful than cries?

Because pain demands to be felt but you have to make the choice to feel your happiness or not, & you should soak it all up if you're wise.

We're only human, we're flawed, & those flaws cause us to lose humans who's flaws are invisible to our eyes.

I see others with pencils & mine is always a pen. I never get another write to make it right, why can't I be one of the ones that gets two tries?

Live for mornings
The lazy ones that help you forget
and warm ones that make you remember
Get up!
Find the beauty the night died for

Two o'clock in the morning
Is my best friend.
The steam from my
Fourth cup of coffee
Curls out of my chipped old mug
To caress the frost-kissed window.
The golden glow of my lamp
Disguises the cold light
The moon casts upon the ice shrouded garden.
Two o'clock knows
All my secrets
All my tears
All my schemes.
My cup of coffee and I,
Holding the universe together
Just by our existence,
By our very essence.
For two o'clock in the morning
Is not for the faint of heart.
It is not for the lovers
Or the mundane
Or the sleepers.
Two o'clock in the morning
Is for the writers
For the poets
For the dreamers.
It is for the desperate
The passionate
The obsessed.
They join the stars
Dancing in the winter sky
In their wanderings through the darkness.
Once the mundane fade
Into the realm of sleep,
Heaven's teardrops pour
Their favor on upturned faces,
The faces of those who look to
The stars
The dark
The night
For guidance
For wisdom
And for inspiration.
And so, the daybreak finds me,
Something small dwelling with something enormous,
I and the universe.
It is, however, a part of me,
And I am a part of it.

Most mornings are spare,
Like the spaces between the branches of a spruce tree.
Most mornings are clearings in woods
And bare bark.
Most mornings sound of violins
And Torquil Campbell’s voice swooning in and out of Bach’s Suites,
Leaving you empty,
Hueing you in gray,
And sketching you, lightly, onto white notebook paper.

I fell in love with the mornings
and waking up to breakfasts in bed
drinking coffee only you would know how to make

I fell in love with noon
and the lunches we had together
talking about the latest news over takeout

I fell in love with the afternoons
and the times we spent reading on the couch
eating every word interrupted by coffee stains

I fell in love with the nights
and our stupid little adventures
driving aimlessly and getting lost on the highway

I fell in love with the midnights
and talking to you about anything and everything
watching you stare at my mouth listening to every word

I fell in love with the moments
and everything in between the beginning and the end
wishing I could still spend them with you

I fell in love with the sound of your voice
and the feel of your existence
but I am not in love with you.

Your eyes are rustic in the morning
contrasting your sun-stained skin to
have a glow about it–perhaps it’s nicotine
   Eight a.m looks good on you, for you
   It’s nice not waking up early alone
It’s nice being conscious of the sun rising together
though we’re still tangled in arms under covers
   It’s just nice to not sleep alone
Though there is such a thing as too much heat
  But I miss it when it’s gone
More specifically your heat
and your scent–slightly nicotine
  and natural morning rust
How is your skin so smooth
and your form robust?
Your breath so gentle, along with your touch
which can play the part of rough when
the heat becomes too much
Your front hugging my back
a situational brushing igniting
blood rushings–like nicotine
I’m not quite hooked but I do like
a taste of you in the morning

your body close, my only heat
    I close the gap between
morning is here, sun ready to greet
    grasp me tighter, on my head you lean

I turn to meet your gaze
    kissing your face awake; slow
you open your eyes in a blissful daze
    and from those big blue eyes, love flows


the breeze trickles in
    tickling my nose
morning is ready to begin
    you twinkle your toes

wrapping myself in the covers
    you wrap yourself around me
two steadfast lovers
    together we are free

One day, you'll awaken,
with blood shot eyes,
scratching at a five o'clock shadow,
even though it's seven o'clock
in the morning, and
wonder where it all went wrong. Where she all went wrong.

When the arches of her feet stopped
tiptoeing across the room
to kiss you good morning.
When the parallels of her calves
started making diagonals
when laying on the bed.
When the crook of her elbows
no longer wrapped around you
like the beautiful ribbon on the present you gave to her last Christmas.

Do you even know where that present is?
It's there,
up there on the shelf collecting dust
along with all the "I love yous"
and other promises that you stash away for cold winters nights,
when you crave her warmth,
and long to feel the chill of her sapphire-painted fingernails.

But somewhere between the cicadas of summer and the apples of autumn, you lost her along the way.
You lost the way her hair finds its way onto every surface of your house.
You can't find the way her nose wrinkles when she laughs,
even if you turn over all the couch cushions,
and look under the rug.

You check your file cabinets for the way her chest heaves when she sleeps,
and check in the pantry for the memories of her propped up on her elbows,
looking out the window sill at the rain,

But all that's left are phantoms of her amber scent,
and ghost-smiles that have all but gone stale.

When shapes begin to form,
and limbs regain their feeling.
When you're conscience of your breath
and the thoughts that you are thinking.
Before the dreams all fade away,
and the harsh light floods your eyes.
That moment when you're not quite sure
If you truly are alive.