Late August mornings
The air is getting cold
Wake up, and pull me closer
The sun is rising slow

Slow, like a butterfly, when it lands on a blade of grass
Slow, like my eyes that open, once and then blink twice
There's no need to go faster, there's no need to rush
These late August mornings, lay still and enjoy life

Lay still and take it in; you're breathing, you're alive

Late August mornings
Feel lazy the whole day
Everything I planned to do
I might not do today

Today, life is perfect, no worries, no regrets
Today I plan to stay asleep and dream away the stress
I dream of pretty butterflies, of wind and scattered petals
These late August mornings, I get to feel alive

Sit there, and imagine, you're perfect, so is life

Late August mornings
Rays coming from the sun
Peeking through my window
Trying to wake me up

Wake me up from the perfect dreams inside my head
Wake me up so that I'll feel safe and sound again
Calm, and very happy, quiet all around
Outside I hear the crickets chirping, birds singing their sound

That moment is the reason I love this late summer month

Late August mornings
Coffee, rumpled sheets
Across the room, a pillowcase
Has landed by your feet

Feet that walked a hundred, a thousand million miles
Feet that carried you through everything you did in life
Nobody else will ever understand who you are, what you do
Nobody else will ever get what you had to go through

You stand there, please understand, you're who you need to be

Late August mornings
The breeze plays with my hair
The open window lets in light
With you, its cozy here

The way you said good morning, smiled and kissed my brow
The way you held me in your arms, I want to feel them now
Loved me unconditionally, but beauty has an end
I'm alone now, you're gone, I just have a head full of memories left

I wish you stayed for longer, but time came for you to go

Late August mornings
Like time came to a stop
I lay alone and think about
Nothing and everything

Everything I said, everything I didn't do
Nothing comes to mind of what I loved more than I, you
Not long ago, life was completely different
Changes will come and go, and you were one of them

You're gone now, and I miss you, a smile ghosts my lips

Late August mornings
It's time for me to go
Wish I could stay for longer
Sun came up long ago

Long time until I'll be able to do this all again
Long time until I'll be able to move on from this mess
But until next summer comes, I'll be here all alone
Until I close my eyes, and imagine you were never gone

Reality comes crashing, to imagine is a dream

Late August mornings
My bed is undisturbed
The sheets are straightened out
The floor has lost the pillowcase

The coffee cup is in the sink, the windows opened wide
The sun is up, the open blinds are letting in the light
Instead of lounging on the bed you can find me on the couch
Staring out the window, in my hands a cup of tea

Late August mornings...

They feel different without you; you are all I'd ever need

Our mornings nearly always unfold in the same way.
We reserve those initial hours
for stretching out muscles and moments.
we turn on slowly,
these tickers are getting older every day,
It seems,
our engines don’t turn like they used to
it’s a sputtering sort of process
A stop-and-go kind of thing
Slow
Steady.
Reliable.

Old souls in young bodies, one might say.
Our aches and ailments aren’t all that bad,
Our muscles haven’t knotted and we haven’t grown frail,
At least not quite yet, anyways.

Oh, but our souls?
These ol’ things?

They take some time to get going,
They need a little warming up before we can --
well, before we can really do a **** thing,
Just enough time to ignite the fires in our respective bellies,
And to settle into the heat.

And we’ve got it down to a science.

It starts in the toes.
Yours find mine,
Or mine yours,
And I ease into knowing that you and i got lucky,
Maybe the only luck we’ll ever have
or at least the very best of what we’ll ever see of it,
How fortunate it is to find the body that holds the soul
That wakes yours gently, slowly…
i digress.

Next goes the hands,
To the hair
Or the face
Then comes the muscles through our backs, shoulders,
We get reacquainted with sunshine and song birds.
We adjust.
Adjust the blanket, the pillows,
Adjust our schedules
(10 more minutes, we won’t be late)
Adjust our bones, our bodies,
Our expectations.
We take our time
tweaking and turning ourselves into the type of people who
Get dressed and
Brush their teeth and
Socialize and
Go to the bank and
The grocery store and
Reply to emails and
Call their moms and
Pay their bills and
Clock into work on time and
Get through work without crying and
Remember to take their meds and
And oh, god, okay, fine,
Five more minutes, i digress.

Finally
we lean into the weight of the world and take it on in pieces. A slow drip. A toe in the water, then the leg.
Two tortoises in a hare race,
We know how to conserve the stamina we’ve got.
We know we’ll thank ourselves for it in the long run.
So, our mornings go slow.
Steady.

Some mornings are an easier start-up than others.
Sometimes the rain aches deep in our chests.
Or the late night slips sandbags into our eyelids.
Other days, our hearts are quick to fall into formation,
Well-rested
or still ******,
But we don’t let that change our pace, nevertheless.
Our mornings,
Our slow, stretching, simple mornings,
They let something live in us that i’m not so sure was there before,
A feeling so deep and peculiar,
An appreciation, i suppose,
For the syrupy-slow sort of way that we unravel ourselves at the dreamscapes
And knit ourselves into the fabric that is the act of being,
Gently.


One day,
Probably sooner than we’d like to admit,
our souls will wake slowly and our bodies even slower.
We’ll crack and pop from head to toe,
Our bones and backs will ache and pinch and grind and pull,
And we’ll adjust accordingly.
As we do.
We’ll let our bodies, knotted and frail,
Take their time easing into each new daytime.
And our souls, the same,
As they’ve grown accustomed to.
This, at least, we can give to one another.
On days that we have nothing to offer except
Yesterday’s leftover hurt and
The shells of people we once knew,
We once were,
We can give each other slow, steady.
We can sit together quiet,
unfold the sunrise
(or whatever happens hours after the sun rises),
And wait for our engines to purr to life.
If nothing else, we have our mornings.
Our old souls, our stretching muscles and moments.
We have it down to a science,
Us and our mornings.
Isn’t that lucky?


a.m.

Some mornings you wake up
the ground beneath you shaking
and you are afraid,
to face the day standing,
to carry the weight of sorrow once more.

Some mornings you wake up
the world around you crumbling
and you are afraid,
to face the people who hurt you,
to brave a new hope when all has been broken.

Some mornings you wake up
the world a deep, thick fog
and you are afraid,
to face your fears yet again,
to try to break free of the chains you can't see.

And yet
these are only some of the mornings,
washed over with gray
and sometimes, with grief or shame.
Not all mornings are like these.

Some mornings you wake up
the light breaking through the darkness,
and there is no fear,
for chains cannot hold you down
and hope can never be conquered.

Every day is the same; they wake up in the same bed, at the same ungodly hour, to the same monotonous ringing from the alarm clock.

They grumble their ‘good morning’s; whether they believe it is or not, rolling out of opposite sides of the duvet.

They dance around each other in the bathroom, the heat of the shower creating a fog through which neither of them can see; causing him to stub his toe on the toilet or the counter, and steaming up the mirror so she can’t apply her make-up.

They continue their ritual into the kitchen; flicking on the kettle, popping in the bread, pouring the orange juice; stirring the tea, catching the toast and spreading the butter and jam. Crunching and slurping together at the table, mumbling about what their days have in store; tapping texts on their phones, crinkling newspaper in their hands.

They peck each other a kiss goodbye and mutter a ‘see you later’ before going their separate ways.

But then Monday comes...

Mondays are different.

He knows she doesn’t like Monday mornings. It’s the very beginning of a new, long, tiring week. She never looks forward to Mondays.

So he changes that.

He sets the alarm on his watch a little earlier than other days; shutting it off before it can wake her.

He slips silently out of bed and tiptoes quietly into the bathroom to shower; leaving her smiley faces and love messages on the steamy mirrors.

He creates her favourite tea and makes her toast with raspberry jam; just the way she likes it. Picking a flower from the garden; whichever one looks the happiest and brightest, he places it all on a tray and pads back up to the bedroom to wake her.

She no longer sets her alarm on Mondays. She knows he’ll not let her oversleep.

He places the flower in her hair and drops delicate kisses; full of his love and affection for her, to the corner of her mouth, until she stirs gently.

She smiles on Monday mornings.

They eat breakfast in bed, covering the sheets in crumbs and giggling contentedly as the cat licks them up.

She hums in the bathroom while he clears away crockery, and always re-emerges with the flower tucked behind her ear.

It remains there ‘til night fall.

They never once look at their phones or the paper, far too focused on each other to pay anything else mind.

Their kiss as they part reminds them of their love for each other and of the good things in life; like strolls along the shore, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, smiling sunflowers that open to a beautiful summer’s day, and of course, Monday mornings.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.

Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.

Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.

Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.

I returned home to the kitchen the way it was left,
with everything laid out on the counter top.
It was such a mess,
of course it was;
we dropped everything as we rushed out the door.
A cutting board,
with apple slices now browned by their exposure to the air,
bananas now withering into nothingness,
and a knife,
dripping with the blood-red juice of a pomegranate.
Or was it her blood on the floor?
I breathed in the scent of the two day old pomegranate;
it was still sweet,
and it ****** me off.

I used to love my Sunday mornings.
Waking up,
getting out of bed
kissing her.
She was perfect,
and made even the simplest task,
such as cutting a pomegranate in half,
beautiful.
I’ve never seen her be anything except beautiful,
not even once,
not even as she grabbed her stomach,
where our beautiful flower bloomed,
not even as she screamed in pain.
She was the essence of everything fantastic, and whatever she did reflected that.
I used to love the smell of pomegranate.
It would wake me up,
and I would follow it down the hall,
to the kitchen,
and into the arms of my beautiful wife.
The pure, sweet scent reminded me of Sunday mornings,
and Sunday mornings reminded me of every reason
life was worth living:
Her
.
I was silent
as I began to clean the counter top off,
the apples went in the trash,
the bananas went in the trash,
but the pomegranate…
the pomegranate stared at me from where it was.
It burned a hole into me.
I picked it up,
and the very touch made me angry.
I  couldn’t bare the thought of it being near me.
Its sweet smell turned putrid in my hands.
I threw it as hard as I could,
its path going through the window,
and the glass made a sound I’ll never forget.
But the fact was,
I threw it out,
and it was gone.
The smell of pomegranate
would never be here again
on Sunday mornings.
And neither would she.

I woke up on a Saturday morning and expected to feel somewhat refreshed
Saturday mornings have always been among those of my favorite, second to Sunday mornings
But as weeks continuously drag on I find I am not feeling as I would like to on these mornings
The bed being so cold seems to have more of an effect on me than I'd like to admit
I realize, that it is not that I miss you on Saturday mornings or Sunday morning
I miss you as soon as you are out of reach
Love is simultaneously the most cruelly selfish and wildly giving impulse we have and to be denied of it is something that sleeping in cannot fix, a disease incurable by coffee and cigarettes
I know heaven because I know what love is and I know hell because I know what love is
It is not a field of flowers but it is not a gun to your head
Love is something right in between, the most famous purgatory of them all, the end of your life as you once knew it, all memory of what you were before them has been erased, gentle, gone before you ever knew it was being taken from you
And it's funny because here I am overflowing with words I do not have about a love I do not own
But I imagine if I were to have your love it would be one to cherish
I think the first time I kiss you, I'll be smiling and
I think the first time I am graced with holding your hand a shiver will make its way up and down my spine
You are nothing ordinary, you are nothing common
I honestly am not sure how the universe even came up with you
Molded masterpiece of in the deep palms, crafted cut and complete to be something extraordinary
You are what I have been searching for years but with you standing so far I still haven't quite found you
This morning was dreary and still, it held a quietness to it that made me feel uncomfortable
There was not aroma of French toast or the curve of my body fitting perfecting into yours
I wake up Saturday mornings and expect to feel rejuvenated but instead, I am so weary
The morning is all empty where love used to be

Do you remember Saturday mornings?

Passing notes across the table,
Exchanging juvenile expressions,
Laughing and learning
About who we really were.

It was during this time with you
I discovered myself.
Now I'm lost again, I need your help.

I have forgotten Saturday mornings,
And Friday afternoons,
And every late night.

Do you remember Saturday mornings?

when I wake up from my dreams
   have to leave you
       then it seems
that the mornings are much colder
and I feel a little older
all these mornings without you

when I stumble out of sleep
   sad     because I cannot keep
loving images of you
           in my mind
and my body aches with longing
    for your warmth I cannot find
all these mornings without you

then I wish that time would fly
dream of mornings on which I
   turning over drowsily
find you sleeping next to me
happily can lift the cover
and come closer to my lover
oh, these mornings, loving you!

   * *

mornings where i awake and you're not beside me are the mornings i don't find worth making most of. left with just the bodyprint in my mattress of where you spent the night, the creases in the sheets are just signs that maybe you were real and not just figment of my imagination.

mornings, where i'm awoken by your legs hitting mine and your hair brushing past my nose, these are the mornings worth waking up for. i'd stare at you a little while, smile and budge a long giving you room to move. i'd awake you with the smell of bacon noisly sizzling from the pan.

but most mornings i wake up and realise, you were never there to begin with.

I love waking up to you like this, with the sheet pulled up to our waists, my arm around you, your hair all tangled in my face. A dusting of light squeezes through the gaps in the window curtains, gracing your cheek on the pillow beside mine. It plays in your hair, caresses your neck, and flutters down the length of your bare side. The feeling I get when you move against me is indescribable. Your skin. Your scent. Electrifying and calming all at once.

You never wake up before I do, leaving me time to admire your beauty. I have heard people say that they could watch the ocean forever, getting lost in the infinity of the waves and horizon. I feel that way about you. Forever I could listen to your gentle breath and watch the ceiling fan move the little wisp of hair near your ear.

Alas, you always wake, usually first with a slight stir of your legs. Then you take my arm, the one wrapped around you, and pull yourself closer to me until your back is against my chest and your feet tickle mine. I pull you closer to me still, kissing your neck just below the ear. This kiss never fails to finish waking you up, pulling you from whatever remnants were left of the dream you might've been in.

You roll over to face me, your chest against mine, our legs overlapping. Your hand comes up to stoke my hair as you kiss me, my hand on your hip. Morning begins as soon as you open your eyes. Those deep hazel eyes that I lose myself in. The eyes that I can find myself in. I kiss you once more before throwing off the covers and rolling out of bed.

Like clockwork, that is our morning routine. I love it. But this isn’t about our usual routine. This is about the mornings that start with more than a kiss.

This is about the mornings when you first stir and pull me close, pressing your hips against me. This is about the mornings when instead of just taking my arm, you take my hand beneath yours and direct my fingers down your neck, across your chest, to your waist. This is about the mornings when instead of a brief kiss on your neck, I place my kisses all over your body.

You slowly roll over to face me, the sunlight rolling across the incredible slopes of your bare body. My hand is in your messy, wonderful hair as we kiss. Your legs and mine are entangled, our toes warm under the sheet. Awe is the word that comes to mind as you, this beautiful person, climb on top of me, the lucky man. I love the way hair hangs messy in your face, tickling mine when you lean in for another deep kiss, body tingling as you guide me in.

It doesn’t feel hurried or hasty. It is slow and calm, a comfortable warmth only alluding to heat. This isn’t the fiery passion of the night before, both desperate to pleasure the other. It isn’t the reckless abandon of two lovers lost to the night. There will be no sore muscles or exhausted bodies when we are done. Instead, this feels like comfort, understanding. It feels like love.

You used to worry about how you looked when you woke up. You worried that you didn’t look **** without makeup, with messy hair, and the remnants of sleep in your face. But the truth is that I don’t mind if your hair is a mess, if sleep still dusts your eyes, or that lines from the pillow are imprinted on the side of your cheek. To me this is the epitome of comfort, the clearest way I can say that I want you. That I want you now, that I want you at any time, and that I always will. This is the time that I will think on as I go about my day, waiting to get back to you.

I love waking up to you like this.

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
A dire lack of coffee
And a groggy feeling that stays with you
Sometimes throughout the day
Telling you how lovely it would just be
To find a bed and immerse yourself once again
In a dream where things would be better -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
The sun bustling through your windows
Hitting your face annoyingly with a
"Wake up! There are things to do."
And you check your phone and the ring it makes
Buzzes through your ears and you just want it to stop, stop, sto-

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
When you wake up to birds which poems say to appreciate
But really, you're not in a Disney movie
They chirp too much and it hurts your brain, unlike what the poems say
And it doesn't help when you wake up to urban noise pollution
And you can only wish you didn't have to wake up to this at all
To responsibilities, checklists, and a living hell -

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But there are indeed a great few
What I found out recently, what loving could do
To this sleep-deprived heart of mine
It seems that coffee, darkness, a lack of birds, and silence
Are no longer needed to get me off this bed willingly
Because I've found the reason to

There aren't many good things to say about mornings
But when you realize you're waking up to a reality that holds this great few
You begin to see the beauty in tiredness, light, birds, and sounds
That you've never seen before until now
Because just like how there will always be bad things in life
There are good things too

Love.
Hope.
Cookies.
Cats.
Smiles.
Your favourite songs, books, and poems.
Your favourite shows.
Your favourite poetry site.
Your favourite coffee.
Your favourite food.
Your favourite voice.
Your favourite people.
Your favourite jokes.
Your favourite smile.
That certain somebody you're thinking of right now -

I know.

And it takes waking up to see that.

So although there aren't many good things to say about mornings,

I suppose...there are enough to get us through next one, don't you think?

Mourning on school mornings
as you take your children to the bus stop
hope their hearts won’t stop
bullet shells drop

and moments of silence
will never balance their cries
or your rage
or put others at ease

it will never
combat the kids in the halls
saying “we don’t care”
with a rib cage full of hate

it will never
get those of ignorance to think

the people cant listen to moments of silence
so be louder than the gunshots
because I’m tired of listening to those.

these mornings are to be quiet,
to savor the new beginning

these mornings are not to be wasted,
scurrying about,
rushing, hurrying

rushing, racing into the future
actions, thoughts

these mornings are to greet the new sun
wander in circles and spirals with your puppy so fun
following tracks laid by  the wild creatures
through the dark night

these mornings are to breathe
to stand still, feeling the deep pull
of mother earth
gravity, keeping this insignificant form from
floating away
up
far
away
into deep, black, silent space

these mornings are to marvel at the
ever changing landscape
colors shifting,
flowers,
leaves,
plants,
trees

these mornings are to listen to the hooting
of the owls
the song of the birds
no radios
no televisions
no computers
no phones

only the peaceful company of mother earth
her plants,
intelligent and sacred
her creatures,
wild and free
unfettered by schedules
imposed and artificial

following the Way
effortlessly,
serenely.

Our mornings were mornings
of butterflies and blossoms
and banana pancake breakfasts
to the early pastel colors
of summer days
warm in the sleepy sunlight.

It was one of those mornings
where you peer out your bottom floor window,
and look up at the raindrops freshly fallen.

You feel broken,
and yet rushed with an unexplainable emotion.
but you know it’s a good one simply with a bad aftertaste.

You see people everyday, no, you stare at them.
You wish for relationships you once had.
Others you wish you could hold,
and those you could never give up.

Have you ever heard the saying about faking a smile?
It’s an understatement.
It’s not sadness, or anger really, just pain.

It doesn't start out as pain, it just evolves, over time.
The madness results in Emotionally caused Physical pain.
The pain doesn't hurt, it just...sits.

This emotion that we've nicknamed pain, rushes through the body,
Arms numbs, legs shaking, eyes holding back, everything.
It’s all caused from sight, with a drop of longing.

You see this person everyday.
You long for the same people every single day.
And your body just longs for them.

It’s not as lustful as it sounds.
You just possess an attraction to these people.
An attraction that even the most specific and descriptive of words could not describe.

You sit there and you are bound by society’s lock on intermingling.
You are bound by the mock and disgust of others.
You are bound by that person of which you desire.
You are bound simply by yourself.

All this.
All of this Emotion, if you will, was bound in that little drop that clings to the window.
That was but a drop of what I feel every single day.

You can’t imagine
but don't let me sound as if I am exaggerating.
For I am not.

I have felt wonderful things.
Things I am not sure most of you have felt.
Though I wish you could.

I wish I could place my hand on your chest
I wish that all of that energy, that emotion, would flow into you and then back into me.
I could look into your eyes, and I would know, that you know, how I feel.

You could understand everything.
You could sympathise.
but the fact of the matter is, you simply can’t.

I do not believe you have felt what I have felt too, no.
Different version and variations, yes.
But this feeling of impossibility, I know you have not felt.

You are common rebel,
this is not bad, no not at all,
you have more opportunities to release this emotion than I ever will.

And i envy you. All of you. Every Last one.

You look away from the rain drops.
You go back to living.
You go back to hiding.
You go back to solitude.

Yeah, it was just one of those mornings I guess.

One to many mornings
when I was a thousand miles behind
everything I believed in
this lady she was fine
what could it be that draws me to her sine
I cannot believe in everything thats behind
a thousand broken footsteps
a childs voice inside
takes you for the miles
and leave you something else to climb
these sidewalks and people
storefronts and roadsides
why can't all these folks
see everything that's inside
is what their trying to find
its just a little bit of love
that brings me through
one to many mornings
when i'm a thousand miles behind

Every other mornings
When im a thousand miles behind
Dancing with the stars
And Running through the trees
Just running through our minds
Trying to see what we have came to find
Sometime last year
The devil danced with the moon
Fly with the eagles when we sing
The songs to pronounce our love
Moving like some animated cartoon
Thrashing in the water of the sea
Holding on to each other close
So we can feel each others hearts
Beating to the rhythm of the beat
Reminds me of the spring
Every other morning
When I was thousand miles behind

Once and now and then
You see I look to the sky
Wonder to the past
A morning left behind
What is it you see here
Your dreams are Devine
Believe in what you live for
*** in the end of the day
Its just you, yourself and everything you have inside
Anything you think
You will find it produces it self with time
Throw away your hate
Negative thoughts just distract
From all you can provide
To the world with your thoughts and speech my dear
Listen to me now believe in your fears
Shake them down with passion
Just like you did last time
Traveling one to many mornings
Lost a thousand miles behind

on October mornings
when the world outside my window
is lost in a pale fog
& faint white light slips between
the spaces in my blinds but spares
me, cloaked in shade & free
to sleep a little longer (if i could)

when the cozy scent of coffee
drifts upstairs, through the chilly air
& kisses me awake
how to savor a stillness so delicate?
threatened by little more
than the **** creaky floor

on October mornings
born mild & undisturbed
i tiptoe through the quiet
vacant rooms that smell of
spice & stale smoke
all is as i left it.
(draped in loneliness)

when i've accidentally made
one too many pancakes
& the wind's whistle haunts me like
a distant friendly ghost
it seems to always be
on these October mornings
that i wish you were here

the most

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.


Tom Spencer © 2015

The mornings were beautiful
and the nights were lovely.

    That was when you were still here.

Now,

mornings are just sunlight beams
hitting my eyes forcing me to wake up
and nights are just the moon and stars
reminding me of you.

   Come back.

   I need my mornings and nights back.

   *I need you.

Early mornings
Not the mornings where noises and beeps
Stir you from your sleep
And
Not the mornings
Tossing and turning awakens you
From the nightmares replaying in your head
That just won’t let you rest any longer
But more of the mornings
When for no apparent reason at all
You wake up just in time to see the sun start to crawl
Up your walls
Leaving a golden glow
Gingerly you stir in your bed
Because every movement at this hour
Seems a thousand times louder
And you toss and wiggle out of your sheets
Out of the cocoon you made the night before
Your comfort
Your safety
Out of the sheets that now crumpled somewhere in your bed
Below your feet
That hold the warmth that you have left
When dreamy eyes filled with sleep
Barely open
Wanting to take a peek
Outside the window just above your bed
Knowing you woke up just in time to see the sky blushing as it wakes with the world
The rosiness of its’ cheeks
The golden glow in its’ eye
As it peers over the mountain top
Kind of like how you’re kneeling to peer just over your window now
Mornings are bittersweet
A story that only some get to see
A story that comes and goes so quickly
You can almost miss it in a blink of an eye
From amber to rose to yellow and back to blue
Only dreamy eyes can catch the moment
Weary bodies wrapped in tangled sheets
Peering over the window sill

In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back

My eyes felt weak,
The sun felt different.

In the mornings, the hazy embodiment of my figure came out of the shadows that the moon once lit on the sidewalk.
The way the morning sun cut through the window,
the clarity that echoed through the dull breeze.
It was all effortless.

I used to take drives down country roads in the mornings.
The dew on the grass looked like sea glass of an other worldly dimension.
In the mornings, my body felt weak,
A dreamlike cloud would hover itself over me.
The stars would fade as the sun ascended.

Dreams came across my mind,
What would the morning sky be like in the year 9999?
Would new wonders dissipate the present and render our perceptions of the present useless?

I thought about the insects that lived for a day,
   Reality is a strange concept,
its never really there.
   Reality is everything that is different from yourself.

What is reality for "a butterfly who floats for a day and thinks that it is forever?"
Perhaps we are just the same,
We float for a day and think it is forever.

Our dreams will be and cease to be,
Reality will be a morning drive,
Thoughts and feelings will come and go,

The sun will come up again.

you won't even look at me in school,
but when I show up unannounced
on Sunday mornings with smoothies,
your mom welcomes me in,
you descend the stairs with your graceful, conservative foxtrot of a gait.
you hug me hello and we laugh about things like normal people.
your dad comes in from the yard work to say hello to me,
ask me where I'm headed to college.
everything is the way it should be but
you won't even look at me in school.

On Saturday mornings it always was the same
my Nan would say come Chris we are going down the lane
I would fret want to go to the bathroom but she'd drag me out again
knowing what a powder keg she was and thought her rather insane

It did not matter how big they were she had ***** of steel
if someone crossed her path they would come off ill
I was mortified by her temper, my word but she was strong
I have seen her throw hard men right over my head and they were gone

Now at this not so tender age I am
now I understand who I am
just another dangerous creature
like my sweet old Nan

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Early mornings are te best time on the day,
It's quiet it's peace swallows me,
Helps me forget the pain and sorrow,
Helps me let go of the pain from the night before,
The night of nightmares.

Early mornings are the best time during th day,
It reminds me of you,
Your smile your laugh was like the the rising sun,
The cold that sends shivers up my spin is like your touch,
The sweet song birds are like your voice whispering good morning.

But now my my mornings are empty with out you,
My mornings are filled with pain from the night before the night of nightmares and pain,
So my sweet angel remover the that each morning is a new day,
A clean slate a new start,
Smile at the world and remover the the sweet songs of the birds the warmth of the sun on your skin.

Early mornings are the best time during the day.

"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love

We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands

She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up

I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't

She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly