the morning
early morning
just woken up morning
was spent crafting
a thought
a poem
a contemplation
about acting
about anxiety
about newfound epiphanies in my head
but the regular
morning pages
morning poems
morning contemplation
meditation
time
was spent arranging
and planning
and father-talking
which is all okay
but suffice it to say
i’m a little off my poetry game
now.
an upset belly,
late bagels,
just talking,
not really writing,
animal croodling,
spouse connecting,
“concept”
kind of morning.
once again
my frantic creativity
is failing me
this morning page time
and i know i have things i wanted to write about
and i know i have things i needed to write about
and i know i have things i could be writing about
but the sky feels grey, not blue
and the world seems tipped slightly askew
and i can’t conceive of how long this off-ness will last
(nor if it’s truly a case of of perception,
or if it could simply be a time of transition
asleep to awake
un-caffeinated to caffeinated
cat-lap-less to cat-lap-full
[and let me tell you, those claws in my legs sure helped me wake a little more])
so i suppose i’ll keep writing.
hoping things start making more sense,
hoping the coffee soaks its way to my veins,
pet this cat until my fingers find more words to write
(and forgive her when her affectionate head bumps a few letters out of place)
because this is my life;
i made it.
mine.
shorter time
to write my
morning poetry
today,
and the rest
of the day
is filled with
zoom zoom zoom
(but in-person,
not via Zoom)
pondering
jobs
and
houses
and
subways
and
STEM
and i still have to
write
the writing
that i’m both
apprehensive
of
and
excited
about.
(so, i guess, let’s do this)
connect
with
your words
yourself
your past
your present
(maybe even your future)
all you have to do is
connect
with
your words.
~~~
every evening i go to bed
expecting to wake up
and be hit
struck
stampeded
by inspiration,
and every morning i wake up
and i’m still
simply
tired.
~~~
(is it time yet?
time to contemplate what makes folks ‘like’ the poetry i post?
is it time to admit that, maybe i’m not writing for an audience,
but i’ve probably started posting for one.)
no thank you, words,
i would not like to listen to you
as i try to get in touch with the
words in my own brain
as the caffeine filters in
ever so slowly
and i [hopefully] find a way to wake up
and put some more words here
and a few more words there
and welcome a few more words in
and get a few more words out…
so
no thank you, words,
words in music,
you are not welcome quite yet
this morning,
please wait your turn.
change
is a-comin’
and it’s ok to be scared
and it’s ok if it’s not right away
and it’s ok if it’s not exactly what/how we think
but change is coming
and coming
and coming
and maybe
i’ll change
too.
~~~
writing poetry
quick lines,
every now and then
an almost rhyme,
and i wonder if the greats
ever wrate
[wrote]
this way;
half asleep
as a way to wake-up
coffee in hand
cat in lap
pondering the possibilities
of whole pieces
(but only thinking
one or two words
at a time)
~~~
quick!
major inspiration
flow through me now!
poetry
prose
fiction
creative-non
monologues
whole scripts
anything
something
please, universe, please?
none of my poems
this morning
have a beginning, middle, and end.
some have one, or two, but none have all three
and i am unsure
what to share
on this morning
of
false starts
and half-thought theses
and distractibility
[by grammar
by emails
by cats
by other concepts entirely]
so maybe…this is the ending i’m looking for?
i wake up with wild fantasies
about the important poems i’ll write
contemplating complex rhythms
internal rhymes
looking forward to the times
when i can sit with pen and paper
[screen and keys]
and just
put it all out there.
and yet
when i am ready for the writing part
of my morning
i am hit with not only the absence of any important poetry
i cannot think of any subject matter
good enough to put into words.
and if i try to force it
(the important subjects, that is)
they churn in my mind
making zero connections
barely able to put into words
(much less gorgeous wordings)
my mind meditates
and spits out
‘racism
america
bad’
my thoughts
as a white person
of much privilege
[but not all]
could be important
for others of my similar privileges
but would it be worth it
when there are so many who still don’t have a voice?
and so my brain resets
and says
‘write another poem about candy
about the cat napping on your lap as you write this
about the silly things your autocorrect says
about the concept of writing poetry
anything silly and light.’
and my mind mulls again
‘i have a unique perspective
being in the middle
the crossroads of gender
(or maybe completely outside it)
always the observer
of societal mores
(which i always thought was morays)’
but once again my brain interrupts
and says
‘you can’t.
you’re too tired
sleepy
hungry
confused
distracted by this cat
can’t get into it
can’t get out of it
just write fluff
write fluff until your brain seeps
out
and you can maybe fill it
with important things
(that you may or may not actually remember)
once again.’
spent
most of the morning
searching for film/tv monologues
got nowhere closer to finding a *new* one
but maybe, just maybe, i’ve solidified the *old[er]* one?
are poetry parameters
really there if you force
your writing to become a
certain way just to fit it all
into a certain look or feel or
(isn’t that what rhyme scheme
/verses were way back in the old
days?)
anywho
i’ve searched
and read
and contemplated
and i should have been
writing and writing and writing
but at least now i get to
read and read and read
(though i do have a lot to do today…)
it’s morning!
awake!
stick those contacts in your eyes!
drink that full mug of coffee from the fridge!
awake!
awake!
write, read, edit, search, listen to you tummy rumbling
(i mean, listen to the curated playlist that app has going for you…)
break your fast!
drink more coffee!
do your morning things!
awake!
awake!
awake!
kipventures 