Morning

by

Morning Elegance

Star-crossed lovers lie

Snoring in the sand

Waiting on the rose-tipped caress

Of dawn’s fair light,

But the sun catches like

Little crystals in the waters

And they are sleeping through

The glitter and the glare.

The runner’s smile

Warms the streets as they rise

Amidst the shadows of red glare—

Early to rise

And early to rest,

Not like the frantic typing around

Those battered tables—

Early to rise

And early to work,

A desperate cry for more coffee is

As much a sign as these

Gleaming starlets

Carried in the sunlight,

Shimmering in the haze.

Dew drops beneath the leaves,

The covers dip beneath the waves

Of majesty and trees

Swaying in the breeze.

Birdsong, so ponderous in sleep

Uplifted in the daylight—

Just keep away those woodpeckers.

The body screams,

The mind elates

To greet this

Morning Elegance.

Advertisement
by

Another set of Colorado Haiku

What you may notice about these Haiku is that they do not, in fact, have to do with the mountains themselves, as many of the my previous works have. Though these came from my time in Colorado, they were inspired by other sights around me–the city of Denver, for one, the sight of the towering mountain mines for another.

Also, while there are more still to come, I want to say that once again, there may be another brief hiatus on posting as I head north. I will only be gone for a few days, and when I return, posting will resume as normal.

In the meantime, enjoy:

Split the rock below,

Drills bore into deepest hold—

Dead men tell no tales.

–

Rocky mile high club

Five hundred thousand souls strong

No wonder they smile.

–

Beyond the pale light

Sleeps the gilded dragon king—

Fear the reigning flame.

by

Of a Morning’s Creativity

Sleep, I’m beginning to think, is something of a double-edged sword.

No one, and certainly not I, will deny that it feels good. That morning stretch. That clarity that comes in the waking, body taut, eyes open—a lazy embrace of the sun on your skin, and the warmth in every breath. The slumber brings life.

But that life is capped, in some regards. All that energy draws me on, vaults me into the myriad bounties of action, but it distracts. The clarity purges more than just the bad from my mind—in its relentless sweep, so too does it strike away the creativity.

I can write when I am awake. I can read, of course. But the edge to my thoughts are lost, the shine dulled down into bland mediocrity. My world and my actions are clear, but my thoughts are strained. The flow is lost, replaced by strict attention—good for the editing, poor for the writing. I feel a fog as I wake dreaming, and it is the press through this great darkness that brings me satisfaction.

The body suffers, so the mind wakes.