Mondays, amIright?

Sixth day, sixth poem.

Today it’s the aubade, the “morning poem,” and while I’m sure that some will write of singing birds and dozing lovely ladies, my subconscious has seen fit to capture the surreality of the transition from its territory to the waking consciousness of our everyday. I don’t normally write free verse, at least not of this length, nor do I typically favor such a stream of consciousness over more meditated literary musings, but it’s a new day, so let’s try to wake up:

aubade 1  aubade 2

I read cherries in the darkness,
splotches of dreamwork
and electricity
exploding from the stars
but mute like snowfall
in still night

until the labored, heavy groan
of Mordor’s black gate
parts its crusty lips
just wide enough
for a short breath,
and light fairies with a death wish
dance around stagnant pools
like glinting spoons hanging
from twine in a window
that is much too big.

It seems impossible
to roll the ancient stone
from its bed of moss and earth
that fades into a thread count,
weaves a forgotten womb of silk
and honey and protest and regret.

But the meaty hand of
five to eleven and
noon to eight and
four to midnight
tightens its unfailing grip
on the back of twisted necks,
neurons firing twenty-one gun salutes
to noble repose
as the hero’s journey is ended.

Unaccustomed legs on heaving seas,
the eyes would take their time
to ease into tepid water
if digital roosters were not
so insistent on waking
the whole damn farm,
and it won’t be until after
the scalding rain
the loosening of the bowels
the perfume of roasted beans
and dual-hued fried sunshine
that the curse is lifted,
that the beast can part its jowels
and the man can say
“Good morning.”

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