Writing in The Morning.
I am not sure it is the best thing,
to write in the morning,
when the demons are still hovering,
waiting for one last chance to draw blood.
It makes for good drama, no doubt,
writing in the midst of battle, beserker like,
most days the hero of your own story, but
likely it is bad history, for
more often than not your days are benign, quiet things,
the sort of things you do when the battle is won
and you feel safe again, unworried and confident,
at least for the hours the sun shines.
But in the morning, your thin, wiry arms
remind you of your father, and how he passed on
his collection of darkness,
how many battles he never fought, but simply drank away,
Which of us, you wonder, carry less scars? But then,
that may not be the right question.
Which of us, you wonder, have caused fewer scars?
The jury is out on that one.
There’s another twenty years or so left to fight,
morning after morning, another twenty years or so
to wake with your sword and hack away
at the night vines that crawl and twine themselves
inside your head, night after night.
This then is why I believe in God, for I weaken
with wear and tear and age,
and still somehow,
About this poem
I write my poetry mostly in the morning. I wonder sometimes if that is wise. It expunges my demons quite effectively, but probably leaves the impression that my life is a battle.
Mostly, it is not. Mostly, it is wonderful. Once I cut away the vines of night.