I wake up to the first battle,
the simple act of waking, a skirmish,
the turning point of the day.
I talk with the woman I love,
her voice waking me from full moon dreams,
pushing aside the dark lies
by her simple truth.
My feet hit the floor.
The words, always the same,
“It’s showtime!” escape my lips,
no matter how I am feeling.
The cat remains on the bed.
I brush my teeth.
I dress. This time of year it is layers
for warmth. Flannel over cotton.
I go downstairs.
I read. A few verses in the bible.
This morning, it was Luke,
writing of roots and the lack of them.
I write. A bit in my journal sometimes.
Always a poem. A purging
of the poisons and confusions,
rarely a solving,
more a evacuation of the dead weight
that darkens my day.
These are my weapons,
habits of sanity,
developed over decades of warfare,
learning what works
and what fails
and learning, always learning, my craft,
less of writing
About this poem.
This was going to be an essay. But my muse had other ideas.