morning poem
bright early morning sun taking turns with lumbering clouds overhead.
this morning wasn’t meant to be a poem but here’s what it is.
I slept in my bed again, rather than just where I happened to be.
there’s a difference between which floor you choose to sleep upon.
then again it matters
what you bring inside
into your dreaming self.
I listened to a native man on TV the night before. His words well observed, sharp like a knife, bright like an arrow point found in the dirt. But under the sharp was the dull ache of being hurt, a shaft broken that won’t come out. He was a good heart, suffering. He had no god. Not ours, no matter that, nor of his people from whom he stood alone, but neither any plural he could feel of his own inside. So he just had his beautiful words to live within, kind of lonely that way.
a scentless bloom. truth don’t like sleeping alone.
neil reid © april 2013
Written for the We Write Poems prompt #151, morning poem.
And maybe it’s my NaPoWriMo poem too (if one will count?)
comments:
But really, written for me. How long long since the last I wrote. Neither was I even trying and mostly this is from a conversation I was having, then thought, well it all counts, all the words, and shouldn’t it all be poems anyway. So here, a ball of mud tossed onto the wall.
bearly audible 
Anything we write…Better than nothing, and this is way better. Of course, your prose has a poetic logic, so the whole piece reads as textured.
Kind of you. And the visit appreciated. Much as I can (read “willing”) I endeavor not to resist what is – including how words want to be. Not so much putting them in reins, but rather connected by desire. (Ha!) More like running with words. (near pretentious to say, but the phrase amuses me!) Thanks again.
I like this very much, Neil, especially the form. It works. The different forms within the whole make it seem like different sides of self putting in their two cents. Did I mention I really like this?!
Funny girl, but also sweet! Thank you Margo. Maybe we could say collage, the way life often seems from our point of view. Rooms have a top a bottom four walls, doors and windows too – so why shouldn’t poems too. (sounds like another of my goofy prompt ideas??)
And did I mention that I appreciate you much?!
Sounds like a fun prompt idea. Run with it!
Yes, dear man, but you may keep telling me :-D.
This prose poem warmed the cockles of my heart – and shows what a kind caring person you are. Your truth will never be alone.
I am blessed that you read my words. Thank you dear Viv.
Really nice feel to this, Neil. I like the prose and the haikuish bit in between. Or is that haiku, honestly I wouldn’t know the difference. Nonetheless, the whole is really nice.
Pamela
Thank you Pamela. Me too, wouldn’t know the difference, haiku or not. Really it was just the transition between the personal beginning and what I knew was coming, a more prose presentation focused on someone else. Just seat of the pants is all I mostly do. Does it work or not is all I ask myself. Though think this might improve with some editing.
None the less to say, thanks for your appreciation. 🙂
Mud against the wall…
I think I’ll stick this in here. I found it whilst doing a prompt (16) for Miz Q:
from: The Enchanted Island Prose by Washington Irving
“Nay though doubted by historians and philosophers, its (the islands) existence is fully attested by the poets, who, being an inspired race, and gifted with a kind of second sight, can see into the mysteries of nature, hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals.”
May you long be inspired to tell your truths.
Well, I suppose another dimension to mud, and thank you Jules. Yet at root I think it is much what we do with out attention and intention, what result we learn to see. I always liked Wm. Stafford’s attitude that we’re all born able to see and speak, but most of us learn (or are cajoled to ignore) what is there by our nature inborn. That’s the generous attitude I think at least. To look at the world with wonder and appreciation is a great beginning. And then it’s just a matter of the “work” we’re willing to do, engage with the life granted us.
Someone said (a wisdom I think) we may be some born to a certain sense and sensitivity about our stance within this life, yet no stones writ that we cannot also adopt and embrace other ways to be if we just allow for possibility. Can a well dug ditch be poetic? I think so. (oh, there’s mud again! 🙂 ). But all in all, thanks for an interesting thought, kindly said.
May poems abound in your life (appreciative reply!).