With the Breath of Morning
The true quietness of morning
can only be appreciated
by an artistic soul,
the kind of person
who wakes early
with thoughts and poems
and paintings
created in their dreams.
The true light of morning
feels softer as it comes
but sleep-a-beds
won’t know it
or feel its gentle breath.
They only hallucinate
their greatness,
in wishes and in dreams.
They never met Passion
who pulls me from my bed.
In my true dream of morning
I am an artist
showing my portfolio
of paintings done so long ago
that I had forgotten their line
their color, their form,
but in the showing of my work
I feel again the spirit
that lifts me up
on this early morning
rummaging for the right color
to paint the quiet light today.
I breathe the solitude of morning.
Before the Loon Awakes
The water
at the edge of the lake
is dark and dank
and its pushes
its nighttime hoard
of floating debris
toward the shore.
Your hand
when slowly pressing in
slices the earliest ripples
of sunlight that has
found the weeds,
wet and stringy
that cling
with a slime
that doesn’t come off.
But still you step deeper
the cutting coldness
now pushing your breath
that balls your fists
and raises your forearms
to protect your chest.
And you need a moment
for your breath
to return
so the blood in your skin
can absorb the electricity
of the chill
now coming down
from the crest
of the shock wave.
The mud is oozing
between your steadying toes
and you feel Posedeon pulling,
but it is too early in the day
for death.
So you lunge
your whole body forward
with renewed energy
past the wave and its weapons
that guard the shore
and out into the daydream
that floats in while you swim.
Veering Off Course
Momma is again reminding me
to clean up my act
so I am filling my dustpan
with bits of broken things
and words I have dropped
or cracked and can not replace.
So if girls were allowed
to scream, I would,
long and loud
and shake the debris
off the edge of the cliff
over looking Chequamegon Bay.
My trash could be picked up
and my screams
resquawked by seagulls
on to passing ore ships
where scrambling deck hands
would stop their swabbing
and consult with their captain
because a change of course
is in order.
They could turn about
and throw me a life line,
if Momma would let them.
But that, of course,
wouldn’t teach me
to rescue myself
with the knowledge
that tomorrow is a new day
with no mistakes in it.
If only Momma realized
that girls trapped in her harbor today,
aren’t allowed to sail there.
One Degree Away From the Loony Bin
The thermometer cracked 104
with the kind of heat that takes you
with laborious steps
to the freezer door
where you take out
a single ice cube
and rub it against your neck
until the drips
converging in your cleavage
darken the front of your shirt
giving you the drooled on look
of the smoldering infant
whining at your feet.
Twisted and wrung
beneath running water
the only clean rag in the house
is given to the child
to suck what moisture he can
and keep his mouth from emitting
that eardrum piercing cry
and your heat puffed hands
now removed from your ears
languidly collect the drips
of condensation
forming on the metal faucet
spreading them slowly
like salon facial cream
over your cheeks
now too weak
to puff a smile.
Gazing through limp curtains
you see the free-flowing image
of dust from the driveway
swirling higher, higher,
forming and hourglass
gone wild, gone wild
swirling up instead of down
slamming down
the window – trapped!
Insanely you reach up
and grab your hair
tearing it away
from where it clung to your neck
angrily pulling and twirling it
up into a knot
securing it with pins
anchoring it firmly in reality
and if it should ever feel like
letting go
it can’t.
You can’t.
There is no escaping
the madness of the heat.
