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Not A Morning Person

It’s the usual routine.

The morning avoiding, waiting

for her to become human again.

She is not a morning person.

We dance around ourselves, hide

in rooms where the other is not, move

to the hidden spaces like soldiers,

avoiding sniping. I get a shot at

for what I have not done yet, the

boring chores that, more and more,

interest me less and less.

There is more to life.

After a while, we find our places,

separate spaces where we can be

alone together, out of range

of each other, while the dead morning

falls. I wait until she recalls

what our nearly normal is. However

did it come to this?

Life can be so good.

I wonder why we always

manage to make it

not so.

A Sea Of Dreams

A storm is coming. The

rain is starting. The drizzle 

trickles down the window pane, and the

clouded light dims the room. In the gloom,

all alone, I can see clearly, hear plainly,

the rain falling, calling, a pitter-patter

chit-chat that picks at my mind 

all the time, whispering, ‘listen, listen

listen to me’. I can see sheets of

spit unfurling from the sky, sailing down

and down the fathoms of air

from the mothership clouds

above. A remembered dream

comes to me and I recall with

unease the ease of the fall from

the mast of a sailing ship 

down down down

into the unending sea,

deepening and

unbreathing me,

awakening me as a child to the

failing family, the unfathering,

lost and drifting and abandoned, to

the worries of a world that I still

do not understand

as a man.

I am breathless once more at the 

memory restored. 

And the rain falls faster

and the world turns colder

and life grows harder

and harder to know.

The Warming Of The World

England.

Early January.

Out morning winter walking in the urban

backwoods, I see what I should not:

green buds breaking from the sleepy bark.

Not just the eager whitethorn but blackthorn, too,

and haw and wild rose and ash and more. All are

stirring now, too soon, wakened by the early warmth

of the world. They are not rested. They will bud and

leaf and flower and die before they should, out of

the time with the rhythm of the seasons. Bluebells, too,

are showing through, too soon, too soon.

This world is warming, these signs a warning

to us all.

A Note Of Your Song

Each day

Each moment of each day 

Is a note in the song of your life 

Sing out

Sing loud and with lust

Sing for your life

Your life is the song you sing

Only you

When you wake in the morning 

Sing your song 

Sing to the sun 

Sing out or hum

The sound of your life 

The sound of your being 

Of being alive