"morning" poems
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.
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Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your ******* smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
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I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
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She must have been kicked unseen or brushed by a car.
Too young to know much, she was beginning to learn
To use the newspapers spread on the kitchen floor
And to win, wetting there, the words, "Good dog! Good dog!"
We thought her shy malaise was a shot reaction.
The autopsy disclosed a rupture in her liver.
As we teased her with play, blood was filling her skin
And her heart was learning to lie down forever.
Monday morning, as the children were noisily fed
And sent to school, she crawled beneath the youngest's bed.
We found her twisted and limp but still alive.
In the car to the vet's, on my lap, she tried
To bite my hand and died. I stroked her warm fur
And my wife called in a voice imperious with tears.
Though surrounded by love that would have upheld her,
Nevertheless she sank and, stiffening, disappeared.
Back home, we found that in the night her frame,
Drawing near to dissolution, had endured the shame
Of diarrhoea and had dragged across the floor
To a newspaper carelessly left there. Good dog.
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I'm beautiful
You've told me all evening
and will tell me all night
but will I still be beautiful
in the morning?
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
I dreamt that I'd tell you,
I dreamt I'd convince you.
I dreamt you would love me
and I too would love you.
I dreamt of perfection,
a dream so romantic.
I dreamt you would smile
and carefully panic.
I dreamt you would hug me.
I dreamt we would both see,
together we're better -
I dreamt you weren't choosy.
I dreamt up the ways
of how I could tell you.
I dreamt up bouquets
and a time and place too.
I dreamt that I told you.
I dreamt that I could do.
I dreamt that it happened.
I dreamt of a breakthrough.
instead i told you
at 3am drunk on facebook
and i took it back the next morning
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
She was pretty.
Scratch that.
She was beautiful.
Scratch that too.
She was more beautiful,
Than a sunrise on a winter morning.
Or a rainfall on an autumn day
Where the leaves dance in the wind
And fill the sky with life.
More beautiful than a flower
That breaks through the cracks
Of a concrete garden
And brings color to the air.
She was more beautiful,
Than any poem that's ever been written.
She was beautiful.
Scratch that.
She still is.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
#*O morning sky of endless blue
Tinged with purply-pinky hue
You tell me of His mercies new
Whose heart pursues my own
O geese in wingèd winter's flight
Your honking cries arouse delight
And lift my gaze to seek thy sight
As wooing from His hand
O softest breeze which skims my face
And stirs with such mysterious grace
My soul to reach for Love’s embrace
You brush me with His kiss
O snowflakes falling to the ground
You pierce my heart without a sound
To crave a purity only found
Beneath a bloodied cross
O setting sun in half-light glowing
Waning day’s last glorious blush showing
You paint with fire my spirit’s own knowing—
This life is fading fast
O stars of midnight’s blackest sky
Paraded forth, you pull my eye
Toward One Who speaks this ceaseless cry:
“I’m coming back for you.”
O creeping fog to dawn’s light clinging
You whisper, Love’s veiled message bringing,
With haunting echoes faintly singing,
“Lose all of you in Him.”*#
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
I wanted to reach out to the sky
not to touch any star
just to whisper to the Moon
'How beautiful are you'!
I was still, stunned on the ground
wandering down the sunrise hill.
In the midst of the morning breeze
I heard of a whispering
‘The eyes in the sky gaze to the ground’.
So close to me that drew
as if that whispered to me ‘tell me about you’!
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
How do you explain
to your children that the
horrors of the world are real?
How will I tell my son, We
found a place you can call home but
your bus might not make it to school.
Do not look too Jewish in this part of town
Do not play in the train station
Do not get used
to the weight
of a machine gun.
Or look my
daughter in the eye and say, someday
you might say “no” and someone stronger than you might
not listen
You will not tell me
Know that this happens a lot
Know that your wrists pinned against a
backboard will
echo in the way you move your hands
for as long as you let it
But
human hands aren’t as heavy as metal shackles
And I’m so sorry
but I won’t be able to
take the weight for you
You’ll wake up in the morning
That I can promise you
You’ll wake up
and your lungs will fill with air
whether you tell them to or not.
One day
I will hold someone
small, with my face
and they’ll cry and I’ll say,
*I know.
I know you’re tied with little yarn strings to the last life
I know it hurts to be here and
(honestly)
you’re never going back
But
the older you get the less you’ll remember
what it was like
before you had a body
when you were made of ash and infinite light
You’ll convince yourself you live here and
that your hands are you,
But remember that once you were boundless
Inside my body, without yours.*
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
We're forced, each man, to walk a trialed path—
resisted trek, uphill through blinding daze
that shrouds with crucible's perplexing haze
till fog-white skies yield quick to black clouds' wrath.
Affliction brims a thorny pack to bear
whilst dewy darkness drenches in the night,
but where is calming lamp to lend us sight?
And who will come to give us saving care?
Here through veil is heard a whisper certain,
then o'er the mountain creeps the dawning day
and with clear eyes we see the brume give way
as God retracts His theatre's curtain,
unsheathing velvet waves whose morning sheen
beyond grey mist splays vast and wondrous green.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:51 AM UTC
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever, point is I hanged myself today and I'm still hanging.
I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that someone will come home and cut me down but then I keep remembering that if i knew someone like that I wouldn't be up here. Bit ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read somewhere that, like, anything funny is, in some way, ironic. But I don't know if it's funny or not. I don't think my brain owns "funny," you know?
I feel taller. I like that.
I've never been away from my shadow for this long. It had always clung to my feet, parting momentarily for a quick dive into the swimming pool. But never for five hours. I like it. There's three feet of space between my two and the floor.
I wanted something this morning. I may be stuck. But at least I'm three feet closer to it.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
PLEASE FORGIVE ME
for not reading right now.
1) I've been very busy with personal issues.
2) I've been on the low with some poets
who need to talk.
3) I've been emailing Elliott York all
morning about a couple of things.
a) The asinine war that was happening
here on his site. It's caused many to leave
and it (the attacks on Wolf Spirit included)
MUST STOP. Gary L has extended the olive
branch. THE REST OF YOU MUST DO SO
AS WELL. It's kindergarten stuff! You're
ADULTS. ACT LIKE IT!
b) A couple of years ago I came up with an
idea. The Poet Tree T-shirt and poster. It would kind of look like this...
P O E T S
XXXXX
XXXX♡XXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
XXXX
**P
O
E
T
R**
love.joy Y peace
happiness.pain
other.poet.words.
...FILL HEARTS
The X's above would be POET NAMES!
YOUR NAME WOULD BE ON THE SHIRTS!
You could then get the t-shirt/poster
from Elliott York!
It's an idea that I personally put out
a while back but never was able to
follow up on.
Email Elliott York if you like the idea.
I want it to UNIFY POETS. We are ALL
LEAVES ON THIS TREE!
Thanks for reading.
♡ Catherine
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Even in the darkest of the night,
I can still remember those lips finding their way towards mine.
We can barely see what's in front of us,
But yet our bodies are gravitating towards each other.
I'll let you guide my body into the night.
The darkness brings us together.
The darkness holds no fear.
The darkness conceals all flaws.
As the sun begins to slowly creep against the horizon,
He quietly leaves the sanctuary of her heart.
As the seconds of the morning sun ticks by,
He gradually becomes nothing but a dream of her imagination.
The light grasps the truth.
The light enhances the shame.
The light shows the scars.
I can still feel your warmth tingling against my skin.
It's time to wake up.
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 1:58 AM UTC
In That Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,
Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,
I Thought That I Saw An Angel Resting,
Lying Exhausted There In That Craft.
I Call The Girl Out Unbeknownst Of Her Kind Name,
"Hey Young Lady!!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,
She Looked Up Towards Me Once In Anguish & Collapsed,
I See Desperation In Her Amber Eyes & Resolve To Help Her.
The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,
I Summon My Captain & Ask, "Do You See That Girl In The Raft?"
The Senile Captain Smiles To Say, "Commodore, Better Get Married,"
I Look Just Clueless To Which He Simply Replies, "There Is No Girl."
True He Was As She Had Simply Disappeared,
I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,
I Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,
I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.
Then I Immediately Realized It Was My Wild Phantasm,
Now This Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,
No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,
I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.
As I Climbed Down The Stairs To Enter My Room Amazed & Dazed,
I Saw Her Standing And Waiting For Me By The Side Of My Bunk,
I Accepted That Delusion Of My Mind & Started To Lie Down,
She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."
She & I-Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,
In The Morning She Was Gone & Was Just Gone,
Disappeared Into Thin Air While I Was Asleep,
Each Day I So Dearly Long For Her To Return.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 2:06 AM UTC
It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.
don't I know it? I
answered.
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.
I walked down the stairway and
into it.
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---
i
blue grey clouds
of crushed
velvet
sunlight
tears
the
seams
ii
embers of
delicate peach
ignite flames
of fuchsia
the orb of
sun burns colors
away to ashes
blown into floes
of white
mare's
tails
iii
tiny bird
settles restless
on the
highest
branch
flits
away
iv
wind
through
the weathered stones
cries then whispers
luring
the children
who lie within our ribs
to break free
and sing
songs
of
play
v
mamalaria
cactus
wears her
wreath
of
pale
lavender
flowers
sings to
her babes
clustered
below
saguaro
listens
soulsurvivor
(C) 9/13/2015
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Naked you are simple as one of your hands;
Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.
You've moon-lines, apple pathways
Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;
You've vines and stars in your hair.
Naked you are spacious and yellow
As summer in a golden church.
Naked you are tiny as one of your nails;
Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
And you withdraw to the underground world.
As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores;
Your clear light dims, gets dressed, drops its leaves,
And becomes a naked hand again.
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*Little wings flutter
Morning starts with eyes smiling
Birdbath needs filling*
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
You are liquid fire
Come, sit down
let me have a sip
I do am parched
Come, lay down
next to me
Let me explore
your body made of matches
I am made of pure
burning
golden desire
Come, take me down
We do burn so beautifully
after 2 am
in the morning light
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
I'd like to think that she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
As she sits on the corner of her bed,
Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.
I imagine her,
Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.
Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,
Then looking to her class ring,
Made entirely of imitation ingredients,
Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.
When she was still a friend of mine,
I never saw her wear make up,
I never saw her show off in tight jeans
or low-cut tees.
But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,
Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,
Next to the side door
that leads to his sister's side room.
The make up she wears
is from the night before.
It's skewed and shows evidence of running,
Like a wasted watercolor.
I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,
And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.
I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,
He's in grey sweatpants,
He's wearing a black tank top,
With a Confederate flag backdrop,
With two barely dressed babes looking ******
in the foreground.
His hair, unwashed and greasy.
He rubs his belly,
And bears an idiot grin
on his face.
Looking like he just learned how to smile
at this pace.
"Did it feel good?"
feel good.
After he asks, he scans her body,
Beginning at those crimson toes,
And Ending at that clumsy hair.
Every second he scans,
He still wears that drawn-on
Idiot grin.
I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.
Of my warnings and prophesy.
Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,
Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.
And finally reach the only thing she has on,
A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.
A t-shirt, when given by him,
It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".
Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,
During last night's expedition.
He still paid her back with a morning
one-sided session.
"It felt good" she says.
In reference to the ten minute **********
When her body was strummed and plucked,
Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.
As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,
On a bed that is six days *****
While he is grinning,
Being everything but wordy.
I'd like to think she's thinking:
"How far have I fallen?"
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 10:31 PM UTC
I began every morning afterwards
Awakening early enough
To watch the sunset
Alone
To prove to myself
That beautiful things still exist
In my world
Even without you
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chipped wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame
rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on an iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat
bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls
whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight
sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base
cornice clipped by gully goats
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies
triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 5:50 PM UTC
You're a one night stand
But we spent too many nights
I lost count of it.
You're that unexpected kiss
On a drunken wasted night
Of vomits and *****
You're that awkward hi
Exchanged by strangers who
Thought they both knew each other
But were clearly mistaken for another.
You're the bruise that turns blue
When I accidentally bump my leg
On the corner of the bed.
You're the scar that I never
Knew I had.
You're the bittersweet taste in
My mouth every morning.
You're the last thought lingering
In my head before slumber takes me
And you're the vagueness that
Haunts me in my dreams.
You're the scalding hot shower
In a cold freezing morning.
You're the boiling tea that numbs
My tongue for the rest of the day.
You're the obsession
I will never learn to let go of.
You're that person I will
Never get to call mine.
You're the one that got away.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC