Let the words speak for themselves is all.
Breakfast Pots The day’s purpose already resolved Before the nag of the clock. There’s no hesitation: Up to order my piece of world. Cold water softens, warms Cleans away night’s fears . I invent myself new each day At the mirror with brush and pencil. Adrenaline won’t tolerate breakfast It’s not for me: blue gas on Pop-up toaster toasts. Sizzling pan greets a new meeting. After, bacon streaked crusts grin Over sandpaper toast remains. The butter knife, buttered And the teaspoon rusted. The door, heavy, shuts the morning in. Evening return lets the clock tick again. Through the day the morning drags on Until, home, I am welcomed by breakfast pots. The Old World The balm of warmth and softening senses Accompanied us into that old, dark world. The band of sea, a mirror to reflect The unconfessed imaginings of life. At dusk we sat at the street café, Drinking sweet beer. Food, a distraction, Sleep, also a burden, left behind. For us, enough to be: breath the same air. The graveyard dripped under the June deluge. Trees held onto liquid bunches of fruit, Unwilling to let them fade into earth. A strange quietude weighed in the air. The candles and icons of the dead, Heavy, silent: shared sorrow for brightness Burning, now flickering to a moth’s breath, And yet born in us, a kindness of love. The square, compressed by medieval minds, Provided an arcade to shelter by. An undone kiss with face and hair rain-streaked. Years later, souls still lie unquiet.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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