Tag Archives: morning

First Heat

28 Wednesday Apr 2021

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my feet are not cold on the floor though I left all the windows open
all night

no clouds in sight
no humidity, only heat is imminent
first morning after a pink moon

it would be a good day to drink more water, I think, as I water a red dahlia

one puff of breeze enters the kitchen and I smell the heat
the heat of sun on the leaves, the pine needles,
paint on the wood of the balcony
Heat on a black birds back
rising up from the sand, damp beneath
heat from the roof tiles wafting away
like the garlic she uses to make food with her hands
and all is quiet again

until the heat knocks, a loud fist on the steel door
expansion says science but my body startles anyway
and it’s time for the sun to magnify its rays in my eyes
though I’ve closed the blinds
and all I can think is what sweat tastes like
on the first day of heat after a pink moon
and the red dahlia laughs at me.

fog morning.

06 Friday Nov 2020

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the kind of morning i wish would stand still
see what i see.
let me take in the silence
the scent
the gray
the cool soaking wet
let me hold you still
before it all becomes the day.

i remember waking and rising before everyone
and sneaking outside to sit on the concrete steps
shocked i could rise so early
that i could be so quiet mousy
elated that there’s no one to tell me
No
or
Don’t
a long green and white trailer nestled in the catskills
courtesy of grandma and grandpa
land of loud crickets, soft orange lights
strangers in pubs who are friends
a pool that’s off limits
and a basketball court where my dad actually bounced a ball.
so many tiny white spider tents in the grass
should i walk, yes i should walk and soak my socks
i’ll take them off
my tracks look like skis in the wet grass
the world was still and mostly silent
accompanied by tiring crickets
soon grandma will rise with her little slippered feet
and pastel house dress to make us toast with too much butter
that is life
and no one around to say
No
or
Don’t

sun please hold before you burn this fog away
fluttering flock of mourning doves say otherwise
the guy downstairs comes out for a smoke
the chemicals chase the ocean scent away
still, everyone is reverent this morning,
keeping quiet.
so far.

Morning, July.

20 Monday Jul 2020

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The day is long when I rise at 4 in the morning, before first light. I wake up surprised that I woke, I must have made it through the night.

I pace from window to window watching the light evolve and paint the sky,
the trees, the yellow face, now bright, of these concrete walls.
Swallows will barnstorm us soon. Tony is making homes for honey bees.
The weatherman says it’s gonna be 105 degrees and I worry about folks
in the heat without access to gatorade, a/c, ice, shade and rest. (and love.)

I am open to the idea of being patient today.
Patience feels like watching my dresses dry on the curtain rod in the bathroom, and when I do it right patience smells like a green tank top
left out in the sun to dry, softly touching me.

Will another storm awaken me tonight?

Fire

29 Friday May 2020

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The sun is travelling out now, rising over the water instead of above the pavement in the mornings. We witness its return, soft, silent, and bright. We sip coffee or notice our breathing or stand in tree pose as the morning mist burns away.

This morning before I got out of bed studying the sky, I wondered how to cook the chicken I bought yesterday and realized I have no rice to pair with it. I could feel my face furrow and frown with concern and disappointment and concentration. It’s just too early for this. Then I read the news and I paired my concern and disappointment with pain and that overwhelming helpless feeling. Minneapolis is burning and for good reason.

I am an advocate for loud and inconvenient protest. Nothing changes unless the world sees it and hears it and says, “Well yeah, by golly, maybe cops shouldn’t keep killing unarmed black people.” Yet it seems only meaningful change comes after the wings of fire sweep in. Got your attention, forcing you to ask the question “How did we get here?” Well my dear, it wasn’t via a peaceful knee on a playing field. The sun burns in the morning, a police station burned all night, and I am burning now because I can only type a little screed on a little screen far away and not be with you, wherever you are, to demand equal justice for all.

I am not in favor of harming people or property to deliver a message, though, looking back (and I do so much looking back), it seems we are wired for fire and nothing short of that makes real change come around and *stick.*

Do you know the process for treating genital warts? It ain’t pretty so put your helmets on: by freezing or burning them off. They don’t go away with nice words and fancy words and throwing money at them or prayer. Big change comes after fire, after pain, after enough is enough.

I’ve taken stock of my morning, my life, and re-prioritized. Cooking my chicken is the least of my worries today. My other concerns will be dealt with in some sort of fashion. All I know is, right now, I can’t get “four dead in Ohio” out of my head because our president said, “When the looting starts the shooting starts,” which is not an original thought of his. We are angry. We are grieved. When will real change come and stick?

March 14, 2020

14 Saturday Mar 2020

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Before I opened my eyes I could feel the light on my lids.
For 10 seconds I thought I was in my bed at my parent’s house.
When I opened my eyes I expected to see the 6 panels of cold glass,
peeling paint
in a bed a little too cold but pillow deep
For 10 seconds my body felt no pain, and my mind did not reach
for the usual noise.

When I did unpeel my eyes I was a little surprised to be in this bed,
warm, safe, no peeling paint, and no fear.
Strange my self reflected on that time and place I have no love for.

I do not believe dreams are random. They come for us.
I was sent 10 seconds for a reason. A reminder. A connection.

This morning I take note of the message: 10 seconds without pain
or fear: safe, secure, and OK.

Holy Morning

03 Tuesday Mar 2020

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Abruptly awakened
(charley horse and other reasons I rose before I was ready,
remembering a dream of sorting legos with my son and baby brother)
I dress in the dark and remember that I have headphones
and it’s the first time in weeks I can motor

down to the beach in cold flip flops armored in Carhart, otherwise
I crest the dune and come down into the beach and see a gull, torn.
Omen she is, she tells me ‘Ware, what you seek you will find here”
I take up the dare and keep walking, wiggling cold grains from my soles
giving up once I arrive at The Place.

I turn east and study the horizon with “The Crystal Ship”
absorbing me–that piano–one hand, now two
never heard anything so beautiful
god why can’t I do that
he croons effortlessly and the water has not come to hear him
It’s only for me and a wish of you, I suppose…
The orb rises behind thick clouds
I’ve seen the water mirror but not this morn
Small waves rise up and comb the shore though I cannot hear them
drowned out by Jim and Dionysus
(another flashing chance at bliss another kiss, a nother kiss)
Should I read what I wrote so long ago?

The trance is broken by dog-walkers, neighbors, sweet and kind.
Sweaty headphones off now for momma raised me right,
thou shalt not be rude to thy neighbors

I don’t need a reason why.
I am awake and alive
purple ink on my wrist
candle burning
it is morning
I am writing.
(rejoice. delicate.)

Morning Was

19 Monday Nov 2018

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4am. Cold floor. Warm baja shirt and a little jaunt to see if the raccoon’s tail was still hanging out of the tree. Nope. He’s on his way. I wonder if I’ll see him again?  A neighbor walks past my window and tips his hat hello to me because he knows I’m up at all night. He’s on his way to the Navy base. I watch more Navy people leave their homes and head out and they do not allow the door to the parking lot slam, and I want so much to thank them for not letting the door slam. 
Purple. Blue.
Balcony rail heavy wet with dew.
A container ship passes through the channel, moving like a small city or an island, one wonders how any of them fit through. I can hear its engines, or maybe just the throbbing of, as it obeys the nautical speed limit.
Sky pale purple like a pen running out of ink. 
The maintenance guy’s cat saunters and I pssst she wanders over and I stroke her back, tentative, because she’s not for sale, she is marshmallow white, toasted, burnt, tail flags straight because she wants some and I give her some, and I walk back upstairs while she stands guard over sand sculptures. 
I watered my plants and observe they are overtaking the windows. I will need to move soon because there will be no room left for me. I thought it was funny but my brother doesn’t think much of it at all. 
A person, hooded, walks on the sand as if she is avoiding landmines, careful, careful, step here don’t step there. I wonder contemplate her posture this close to land. 

Morning Things That Make Me (happy)

07 Saturday Apr 2018

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Remembering the moon in my window last night
My bedroom air is Goldilocks perfect
My plants are not dead
No blood on my sheets
A mourning dove or two sits on the shed
Rising to the sound of rain, but no–
it is wind, gustyalive
Water murky jade, large water churning
white caps advancing
A silent house
A perfect cup
A pen that does not write nonsense
(purple nonsense? illogic, pity, painful dysharmony,
prayers beside a sputtering black candle in a half-dark room
beloved specters berthed, tucked away safe and I am well)
A pen that did not stop
feet flat on the floor, knees bent with no desire to wander
from this slightly too narrow page — a morning miracle
The phone has not yet rung, there is still time
The gift of choosing which book to read today–
and which one to write

Another tally mark (gratitude) 

September 29 morning

29 Friday Sep 2017

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Well, it happened again.  I stumbled into the kitchen to slurp down lukewarm water from a coffee mug on my sink, eyes half-glued shut. I pulled on whatever clothes I could find and headed down to the beach, sunglasses and a flannel shirt in place because the sun is bright and the breeze is stiff.  Interesting that the breeze is not chilling, it’s “warm” according to some.  It’s the same beach where I got pounded by three guys who don’t see anything the way I do last night, and yet we all agreed the giant, orange sun taking refuge behind that house at the end of the spit was really fucking cool.

This morning I stood on the empty beach watching the USNS Comfort, a Navy hospital ship, heading down to Puerto Rico, post Maria, escorted by a destroyer whose name I do not know.  This morning I had cauldrons full of bullshit still boiling over from yesterday, or hell, last year. I had empty pots clanging from my belt loops making empty noise, but that one particular seagull really didn’t mind. He was busy scoping me out for danger or for food.

This morning I inspected the character of the beach, her new hill, post-Maria. I lament that I do not see many of my neighbors anymore, because. That’s all anyone needs to say is “because.” You don’t need to know why he stays home or she stays home now.

And it happened again, as I walked barefoot with brimming cauldron and empty pots clanging. I stopped moving. I became still and dumb and silent in body and mind because the waves mesmerize me.  Everything drops off,  the scales from my eyes, last night’s venting in person and to the silent four walls where I rehearse my protest speeches. It all drops off and blows away and I can’t do anything but stand there and listen and stare at the waves coming in and breathe the scent of clean ocean. Okay, and side-eye the gull because I know what he wants and I think he knows we’re at an impasse. Energy comes from somewhere out there and pushes the water in and it lifts up, foamy white heads that maintain, maintain, up, ope, starting to break down, down, break, a gentle crash and a retraction. Begin again. Again. I lose time because I get lost, and I cannot begin to speak my gratitude for it.

I like being held captive and silent by the waves, and all the things she does to me.

Amen.

27 August Morning

27 Sunday Aug 2017

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4:30. The sun is coming. Crickets are loud. I lean on my balcony in a t-shirt, listening.

5:30. The sun is coming. Crickets are loud. My neighbor breaks open a soda can. Her cat inspects the windowsill. Time to make tracks.

5:45  The sun is present, though its magenta globe has not broken the horizon. Crickets do fade. Bladders and udders need care, reptilian sleep begins to break, active glands send erotic messages to fingertips.  The world is astir.

The wind is 12 knots. Gulls work hard to wing into northeast wind. The wind drives the sand across itself. If I turn out of the wind, my dull ears barely perceive the sound of sand upon sand and it sounds like sleet on a windshield, so very faint and magical.

Middling clouds make canvas for a star we have not seen yet to become rose, magenta, blue and slate. Some believe this is an unremarkable sunrise because we could not see the chariot’s wheel rise behind the CBBT.

No crab boats motoring. Crab two-packs are rare at the deli the year, and we have the ignorant fishers to thank, oh but plenty of shrimp.

No dolphins. Or secret dolphins. Only they know.

Mr. Corgi man hasn’t come out yet. Cell-phone sunrise takers are here, gooseflesh hinders their portraiting. Will they return tomorrow in layers?

Tiny whelk blows onto my finger. She never made it to teenager, mother, or crone. She sits in a place of honor, a shield of mother-of-pearl, stunted, benign, but not without a story.