Category Archives: Morning Poems
Beneath Her
No chance for nighttime dreaming—a neighbor’s dance beat disruptions wreck any hope of true REM. Her tolerance for talking to drunks has diminished over a decade in reprieve till it’s shrunk to the size of a single shot of espresso … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems, Night Poems, Overnight Poems
Seen Through Fog
There’s a story behind Staten Island Ferry orange. I can’t tell it but can hear its tone revealed in a soothing voice- over through early morning fog. Routine commuting becomes heightened by the transcendent moments before the marathon begins on the … Continue reading
Won’t Go Back to the Cellar
An open safety pin lies on a sidewalk sprinkled with snow as the temperature plummets. She second guesses her choice to leave it there. Questions the optimism she offered a stranger last week. A weapon is a weapon. Drunk driving … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Where’s the Frozen River?
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac in thick shades of gray and try to digest the fact that I am older than he will ever be. I should be so privileged to pass Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer mine … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Ferried
A violent thought drives him to grab the nearest railing so he won’t spill himself onto the deck. The calm water is a song he wrote before he knew how to speak to women with mouths like hers. White knuckles … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
On the Brink
Saturday morning ginger essence on my skin to keep me eager without doom, a cat scratch scar on my ring finger print that won’t quite heal is no stigmata. A tiny smear of blood on paper doesn’t speak in any … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Whose Gingerbread
Do they remember months after the solstice? Who will speak for you tomorrow morning before strange fog clears? Tonight this parade answers no questions.
Filed under Morning Poems, Night Poems
The 6B
Get on the bus—then get off. Plan aborted, a walk in a circle is one answer. No one else picks through racks in a dress boutique to break her stride. Six degrees not of separation, but of burn then numbness … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Whatever It Takes
If I had a drawer filled with aging apples to sniff, I might not need to repeat the word rosewater into the stagnant air. Might comprehend narrative in its raw state.
Filed under Morning Poems
Dragline
November mist nowhere near any Big Sur perch. This morning might give way to snow or nothing at all. I might give in to references to vertical transport or stand on the ground floor and celebrate these wooden stairs.
Filed under Morning Poems
