Note: For several years I woke up at 4 am and wrote a new poem each dawn never knowing what would come. I’ve collected the best of them in a book called Morning Songs and now will share some of them with those who are interested.
Each dawn I sit here waiting for the light
that leads me from the dark so I can write
these words, these psalms, these songs of praise, of pain,
of mystery and look up at the sun and rain
and know the weather of another day
and celebrate another chance to say--
this is what I think and feel and know.
Sometimes it’s cold and the words are slow
and I stare into the fire, shivering
in the darkness, waiting for that whispering
in my ear, waiting for that voice to bring
me, like a gift, the words I want to sing.
Sometimes the voice that comes is sweet,
sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s filled with heat
and rage or longing for a lover’s kiss.
Sometimes it comes like a morning mist
and licks me lightly with its tongue
and makes me want to go and be among
the clouds drifting slowly across the sky
and go to some place far away where I
can know the ease of being silent,
and forget the world where words are violent
like a stone thrown in a pond—but here I am
each dawn not knowing should I curse and damn
the gods or whatever it is that makes me long
for the words to sing another morning song
as if I’m a nightingale–a bird
that sings out loud as if its being heard;
that sings because it can and wants to say
I’m here, alive, singing one more day.