I really like waking at O’ Darkthirty on most days. It gives me a chance to breathe the quiet and settle into my day. A new day that could and will bring anything. Some things expected, some surprises. My goal is to make each one count. I meet each predawn with anticipation and a musing cup (or 3) of coffee.
In the stillness of the morning dark,
Void of the call of any lark,
The trees are silent and waiting.
The day ahead could bring anything.
The quiet air surrounds me.
I am enveloped in what could be.
Before the bustle of the coming day,
I breathe the dark before sun’s ray.
I feel your presence all around me.
I see your face, but unclearly
Intermingled with the truth and pain,
Laced in love and joy within the stain.
I embrace it all to live what’s real,
To grow and die and truly feel.
Striving to be unhampered by
Superficial things that bind and tie.
The chasm is
beyond the bounds of normalcy.
It drops off sudden and steep.
It is murky and dark
to the cautiously searching eye.
Those who have gone before are mute to tell
what lies on the other side
of the noise and ceaseless maneuverings
that compiles living.
The abrupt end of known existence
Its presence hovers
peripheral to life being lived,
until that corner is turned
to find the feet placed
at the cliff
gazing fully at the unrevealed expanse,
unable to return.
You already told me
that I can fly.
The breathless beach day sky beckons
but the wings are not ready.
as the wings are dressed and redressed again,
fitted and groomed for distance flight,
not for short sprints.
Wings of strength and force
must be honed
to arc and soar instead of to flit and flutter.
You already showed me
that I can fall.
Stranded on the earth
until muscle and feather are reconstructed,
better equipped for future flights.
You will not enlighten me
where I will go or what it will take to get there.
But you have prepared me to fall and to fly,
to embrace the cycle
with fully extended wings.
To leap further than before
into the extraordinary blue.
Behind the crafted mask you wear
I know what’s really hiding there.
Within the silken threaded lair
Lies a not so clever snare.
I step inside from light to gray
Knowing I will likely pay.
Fragile flowers I will lay
On the dark and dense decay.
The flowers rest upon the stain
Wilting as they soak the pain.
Their dimmed brightness is not in vain
Dark is lighter where they are lain.
The Child is poised
On the edge of an endless field
Crisp, tall grasses sway and wave
Cajoling the vivid wildflowers within.
The shy bright sprigs
Slide against the shifting sea of grasses,
And then coyly bend away
In the ruffling breeze.
The breathless wind skips over the tips,
The whispering is barely audible.
It teases the flora
And it teases the Child,
Tickling a place deep within that has no words or reason.
A child must run
When faced with a wide open field
Or even a long corridor.
The impulse insists
And the Child runs
Happily embracing the burst
Of brief careless freedom.
There is no destination or purpose.
There is only the running.
Rustling in the fringes
A flash of indiscriminate color,
A glimpse of the quirk of a mocking smile,
Opening out and spreading
Silence seeping in, then saturating.
Nowhere to be seen,
But I feel it,
Blending with the surrounding scenery.
The Thought hides
and I wait, poised and expectant
for Inspiration to leap and strike.
I can’t exactly tell
Where the Desert kisses the Sky.
The silence hides their passion well,
But the smoldering shimmer reveals the lie.
Is it where the dunes reach to embrace?
Or where the valley submissively yields?
Perhaps it’s when a sudden wind does race
Over the seemingly barren and brooding fields.
Electricity trembles where they doth touch.
My senses hum the tune they sing.
So thickly quiet, but speaking so much.
My skin is parched and mine eyes they sting
The blue is brilliant against the sand’s pale clutch
The sun it colors me and the sand doth cling.