Ozioma Ogbaji Apr 2015
In the morning, old becomes new
Birds sing as black slowly turns blue
In the morning, my fears are taken
My faith is stronger, I am not shaken

My fears are taken by morning's rebirth
Fresh as the dew clinging to my feet
In the morning, there is a new me to meet
Whom the blinding night has deemed fit to birth

In the morning, my flaws are still the same
Like the yellow sun, everyday like flame
In the morning, I remember yesterday's mistakes
And I know better what is at stake

In the morning, I let go of the night
I let go of the dark, I embrace the light
In the morning, my eyes are brighter
My dance is better, my laugh is lighter

My smile is warmer, my kiss is softer
My hug is tighter, my speech has no stutter
In the morning, I am all I want to be
Awake, refreshed, hopeful, free
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.

Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting

from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns

to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder

keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world

and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,

another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.
It's not the haze of the early morning
taking up your side of the bed
that tells me it's time to pretend
you weren't here again last night.

It's not the gaze of a silent songbird
peering at me through the window
that tells me it's time to act
like I don't know who you were.

It's not anything I can pinpoint
or explain, convey, or describe
that would let you know how much
I wish this wasn't so.
© 2011  J.J.W. Coyle
CA Guilfoyle Apr 5
In the sweet of early morning
and only for a few precious moments
I thought of nothing at all
I stared blank at the four walls
in a state between awake and dreaming
and only until the startle of the first bird singing,
the wind playing in the wild branches.
I saw the sun clinging to roofs and trees
light traipsing through the garden lilies
I heard the chirp and groan of frogs
newly green, all the unfurling fronds
and from the broad leaves
the dew fell sparkling in rivulets
and drank the carpet moss
softly green and splendorous.
#morning #spring #garden #moss
Luisa C Aug 2016
i wish i could forget my regrets as fast as i make them.
i wish i could end my sadness as fast as it stakes me.
i wish the sky above could change to black and put a stop to the thoughts as i succumb to sleep.
i wish i fell asleep as fast as i crave sleep in the morning, waking,
i wish.
and i can only do just that.
Daisy Marrow Nov 2013
Unfortunately, the sun does set at night
and I am no longer able to see your face in the sunlight.
As I reach out my hands to find your cheeks
silk honey skin greets me.
You open your eyes and I see them perfectly.
They're blue like water that has frozen over
I see myself drifting away in the seas chillingly.

Sweetheart, don't leave the bed tonight.
Lose yourself in the sheets
and drown in all the oversized blankets.
It's too cold outside to be alone this time.

It's 10 pm and I want to stay here forever
I will not grow tired of you
It is not possible, you see I smile all the time when you're near.
Let's grow old to the grey,
Never let this get boring.
But for now, sleep with me here until the morning
Kate G Jul 2017
It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
The hour where naught is awake but
Lovers and dreamers
And those deemed too far gone by the rest of us
To which we send a wilting flower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And I sit upon a lush coven of cotton and broken dreams
And peer into the crisp, aging pages of a crisp, aging story
To dissolve away the alms that haunt my hollow tower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And I mourn
I mourn the loss of love
And the loss of hope
I mourn a loss I have known so well
As well as a loss I have never myself felt
Tied, side by side, in a waking melancholy sour.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour
And doves less mournful than I have passed on to sleep
And he, as I dream, is far away and dead to me
Still dear to me
And I reach out, into the darkness of the night
And end the mourning hour.
A Oct 2015
in the morning it gets better,
trust me, my dear,
when you're weeping while you sleep,
i promise to be right here

if you twist and turn in bed,
i'll pour you a cup of tea
and pray you start to shut your eyes,
so your mind flows like a sea

in the morning you'll forget it,
you'll leave the monsters behind,
while your temporary sunshine eases
the moon on the other side

once you wake up you will see
that you've got no more tears to wipe,
for the battle in your head will cease,
merely a moment, out of sight

in the morning you'll be better,
trust me, my dear,
when you learn to let love in,
you will have nothing to fear
a letter for my future children
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