Hunger

Morning Writes

Each morning I step outside and sit down in one of the wicker chairs we have outside of our house, armed with coffee and at least one cigarette.  Sitting there waiting for me are chairs, a footrest, an ashtray and two large lighters.  I start almost every day in this way.  It’s an important ritual, based almost solely in addiction, to which I adhere strictly.  It helps me get my head right for the day, a task which takes more effort than one might immediately consider.  Especially when I’ve had nightmares about being chased naked by a polar bear.

These poems aren’t great, they’re just where I’m at right now.  Experimenting with what I used to be able to do with great ease and without a second thought.

Haiku #1

Purple flowers rise                                                                                                         Green backdrop of unmowed grass                                                                                    Dying tree behind

Untitled #1

Two chairs in the sun                                                                                                                 I sit upon one                                                                                                                    Birds chirp in the trees                                                                                                      Sets my soul at ease

Some of what I get to look at every morning.

Haiku #2

Haiku poetry                                                                                                                      Iamb Iamb Anapest                                                                                                          Finish with a thought

Untitled #2

How can I keep on writing                                                                                             While drowning in blue ink?                                                                                            Can’t keep my head above it                                                                                             Long enough to take a drink.                                                                                       Shaking hands and cursive                                                                                                   Do not a great match make                                                                                                  I’m giving most of what I have                                                                                         What more will you take?                                                                                                    As we turn closer toward the sun                                                                                        As shadows shorten and slide                                                                                                 I wonder if my talent’s back                                                                                                 Or if I’ll ever find                                                                                                                    A place where I can quietly                                                                                             Write and read and write                                                                                               Should I do it in the morning sun,                                                                                       Or wait until the night?

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This entry was published on February 7, 2012 at 11:15 and is filed under Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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