Ante Meridiem Musings

How dare I contrast
Confuse
Or compare

The gorgeous rhythm of rain
Upon this corner of the world
Stirring my morningtimes now

With predawn’s blessed birdsong
Celebrating a coming sun
Inspiring my risings back then

Have they not both awakened me
Gloriously
Miraculously

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The morning I think of giving up
Shades of moss green and orchid peaceably pull me back
As an elder, in Auto-Tune
Promising a child that dancing days lie ahead
An altogether different morning, now
That deserves
I deserve
A wholly-new and holy mind

“The Currency of Grace”

Surprised to see the a.m. sun
Afire
Shining through
The door I’d forgotten I’d opened
Left open
To remind myself I’m alive
Praise

A part of this world
Apart from this world
And out of this world, too

Anyway, first, foremost
Tending to all the green
I thought to stop, I felt ashamed
Guilt
For all I’m giv’n, undeserved
But, my friend told me the currency
Grace

Wedded

Unending morning, I Am
Forever working out the pain
Unweaving the lies from the hours of you

The promise, I Am
As yet undelivered to the ether
Present and unstoppable now, you hearts

Wedded, I Am
To the heavens, to the Everywhere
Moving, pondering all of you ages, We

A Wild Meander

I don’t want to hear the morn’ coming in; stay at bay.

At my pace, I’ll share my fruit with the wild; bid good day.

When the sun seems warm enough, out I’ll go; come what may.

Truth is, creatures know I can’t resist them; so I stray.

God Glow

Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.

But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.

But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.

Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.

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We and I

How many closets did we crawl into

How many midnights awakened

By an ever-fixed, screaming star

And I, another day older

No closer still, no more able

To take us away from the chaos

Carelessly strewn about the sky

We were forced to live under

But there we were

Closet door and mouths closed tight

Waiting for morning to come

And I, another day older

Stay