morning is here
on time again
I pour my coffee
and sit with
the quiet
as I do
every morning
same questions
sit with me
quiet as
the morning
as ever present
as the dawn
outside my window
the day
in my mind
appears as
an account
an accounting to be
in the quiet
of twenty-four hours
I have these
conversations
just me
the dawn and
my coffee
and I wonder why
I don't
fire
myself
and hire
a
new
me
one that won't
disappoint those
I love
and bring pain
by my acts
or non acts
into their life
and I wonder
why they don't
fire me
and find someone
else
that will treat
them better
and this is it
the question
above all others
the question
of value
of time
of accounting
a class I dropped
twice
before switching
to history
a subject suited
to us flagellants
2 comments:
We may not always be as we would like to be, but we are seldom as bad as we think we are.
The quiet aloneness of those moments is pronounced in your opening stanzas, it appears despite the revelation of the thoughts that occupy your mind during these times as completely desirable, the quiet of morning, the utter divine decadence of fresh, hot, black coffee, the stillness, aloneness, and indirectly the possibilities that may follow dawn. And even though the continuance describes a heart that is heavy, perhaps due to the revelation that this is a reoccuring event (and the symmetry in style) it maintains that delicate mood of morning and mist (steam).
Sweetest, you've done a very good job of describing my mornings. This poem is not so much about my mornings as it is about writing, just writing, floating, flowing. Flow is an overused word/concept, but writing either does or doesn't and is harder to achieve than one would think. I used the contents of my pre-coffee mind as subject matter, but the subject matter is secondary to the exercise, the practice, the effort or lack of effort to slip into the flow of form and words that seduce in their beauty, subject matter notwithstanding. This was the attempt. This was the exercise. Won't be the last. ;-)
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