This is how I start my days.
At four a.m., I awaken with a start. It isn’t that I wasn’t sleeping well, but this is my witching hour. I reach over and pull the covers up over my wife and take a moment to gaze in absolute awe at this beauty, this incredible effervescent woman sharing my bed.
I quietly swing my feet to the floor and sit for a moment. My muse is impatiently pulling me into awakening, but I do my best to resist. I want to sleep just a little bit more, but my eyes have already made out the flashing light on my hibernating computer and just like that, I want to be writing more than I want to be dreaming.
I gently close the bedroom door behind me and make my way into the kitchen. I put water in the kettle, light the stove, and grab my pack of cigarettes. I head out the door into the blackness of the night, sit upon the second stoop, and light up. The ritual never changes. And there, beneath the canopy of constellations, I look for my special star. I don’t know what it is called, and I don’t know why it is that star…but I need to start each day in silent commune before it. Once I find it, I stare at it for a few minutes, emptying my mind of creeping thoughts. I slowly close my eyes, inhale another drag, and listen.
Like little mice on padded feet, the words start scampering around my brain. The writing has begun.
I toss the cigarette into the night, watching a spiral of red sparks ascend, then descend, as if to punctuate the purpose of this ritual. From the kitchen, the kettle begins to sing, and I rush in before it hits full crescendo and awakens my wife. I pour the steaming water over a cone of coffee grounds and inhale the rising steam. In a seamless arch, I take my cup of coffee to the kitchen table, flip open the lid to my computer, and hit the resume button.
And then I write. And write and write and write. At this point, what I write is irrelevant. That I write is the point. The wee hours of the morning are not the time to self-critique or to spin a plot. It is the time for the bleeding of words.
This is how I start my days.
With desire spent, we leave the night
Our bodies bathed in morning’s light
Our limbs entwined like climbing vines
Our kisses sweet like summer wine
Our spirits soar, our hearts set free
Beneath a verdant canopy
Of flowering trees and running streams
Of fragrant winds and lazy dreams
Such sorrow shall we one day know
When either you, or I, shall go
And leave the other to sorely miss
This warm embrace, this soulful kiss
As the sunrise drives away the night
and sunlight fades to starry light
So does this love, in ardent gladness,
Dispel the weight of parting’s sadness
But let us in this moment know
One final bout in passion’s throe
And leave the morrow to the night
This moment now is our delight
Unfortunately, many people will relate all to knowingly to the poem. Re-posted from a talented poetess I’ve collaborated with in the past (http://dlmchale.com/2013/02/06/in-remembrance-of-sandy-hook-elementary/) Her work has an brutal, often naked truth to it. Please visit her blog for this and much, much more of her incredible writing at: http://hastywords.wordpress.com/
Quote Posted on Updated on
“Just so you know, despite the darkness and despair of some of my poetry, here’s a glimpse of the more hopeful and soulful affirmation of my personality” Anyone laughs, I un-follow!
You ask if love’s forever
A promise I can’t make
But if I could, or thought I should
I would not hesitate
I’d promise you forever
And then a day or two
If I were free to guarantee
Forever loving you
But promises are born of doubt
A doubt that’s seldom real
The love we know can only grow
In trusting what we feel
Yet, I’ll promise you this moment
If words can still your fears
Just hold me now and show me how
To love you through the years
Unlucky you, who didn’t come last night…
I took the bed’s hard wood post for a man!
You sit and write all night and I lie here
like a shriveled cornstalk blackened by mold.
Am I too old? I’d rather die than have you lie
that you’re afraid to kiss me. Do you miss me?
Leaving me in my nakedness, sprawled
across the unslept bed, open like a blossom
spreading beneath the sun,
offering her nectar but left to wither on the vine.
The night possesses you,
the unfinished verse obsesses you,
but don’t say I won’t give you a kiss.
I offer all of this, but no, you have your Muse!
That wretched bitch that sucks the passion
from the very air you breath and pours her
empty promises in your goddamned poems!
Do her words comfort you; can you find
your release in her couplet or a metaphor?
Does a well turned phrase caress your face,
or stroke your thigh, send shivers down your spine?
I offer you the whole of me, yet you prefer a simile!
Who am I to you? What am I to do?
Come to me! When the morning’s light
pushes the night away, come to me.
I am the ending you are looking for!
Quote Posted on Updated on
The phases of life, the marking of time;
I lived two weeks, four months,
six months before moving on.
There were no long-term relationships –
one night, maybe a week, perhaps two.
Love was too expensive for a traveler,
much too heavy to carry in a bag or box.
I put my days on paper, ending one story,
another poem filed away, me moving on.
There would always be another day,
another pretty face, a warm body
to hold through another cold night .
True love by the hour or day, I could afford that.
That’s what I thought at the time.
I sold my poems, sad stories, many years ago.
I didn’t sell them for money;
it was always a trade , a fair exchange I thought.
The perfect and ideal love
burning so bright, but not very long.