Tag: new poem every morning

Awakening

lindastudley4 Comments

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to wake up from a coma,
groping for the past, staring into the mirror
only to see a stranger staring back.

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to live in a foreign country,
everyone waving hands and talking gibberish
until I speak, and they stare at me, puzzled.

Some days I think I understand what it must be like
to be a sleepwalker,
restless pacer, blind seeker,
doomed to endlessly retrace a pointless journey.

Then your laughter rushes in to fill the gaps,
you smile in a language we both understand, and
the beating of your heart sings me to sleep.

#92

The Light that Holds the Night at Bay

lindastudley6 Comments

And when I flip this switch the night outside will be gone
and all the windows will gleam with our reflections.
Reflections of you and me and the couch and chair
Reflections of the inner world we create and inhabit.

Like a wall of mirrors, the dark reflections on windows and
patio doors infer that what transpires without  
is not as important as what transpires within
I close my eyes and wonder

if the inside of my lids are like the mirror windows.
If I could turn on a light in my head
would everything outside of it disappear?
Would my mind be inundated with dark reflections

Of you and me and thoughts and dreams
As though the perceptions and memories of love
Were more important than the fact
I open my eyes in wonder and see as I’ve never seen before. 

Hold me.

 

#2

Every Morning

lindastudley1 Comment

Every morning he brings me tea
His morning ritual merging into mine.
He smiles and places the genesis of my day
on the cluttered table beside me
where it steams in a special mug – how many have there been?

The white bone china with the golden ring around the top,
The violet sprinkled, footed mug,
The greedy cup…
All eventually fallen from grace or a clumsy hand. 

For now it is a handmade, sea green mug, deep and dark
With a small chip that I overlook
Because I love it.
Like the chips he overlooks in me because he loves me.

And the tea, the tea
Hot water, teabag, sugar, milk
So simple yet somehow I cannot reproduce the exact same flavour
Life goes on through thousands of mornings
and only my tea remains the same.
He drinks coffee.

 

#1