Time Zones

Mornings are dark. Slow.
A time of shaking off demons
and burning fog. Your body is thick
and sluggish. Not quite in pain,
but almost. A time of coffee
and a time to delve into your emotions
without the filters of a better day.

Mornings are purposeful. A routine
of pushing through. Devotions, journaling,
poetry. Putting words to the poison,
a bloodletting in black and white.

Midday has meaning. Work has been done.
Often a whirlwind. Rarely in your comfort zone.
It is the end of the great push. Not exactly
a carpe diem. More a half carpe diem.
You are efficient. Powerful. People are helped.
Prayers shared. You feel yourself,
or at least as you imagine yourself to do,
better than you actually are. Content. Certain.

But you run out. Age catches up with you
or maybe, since you have been this way
since you were young, it is just the cycles
of chemicals in your brain, but it is as if
someone pulled the plug, and you plod,
push, drag yourself through, a soldier with miles to go.
Your resistence fades.

Afternoons are a good time to write. To paint.
To ponder and day dream. WIthout the filters
of the have-to-do’s, truths emerge.
You are at your wisest,
though there is no one to know.
You know. That’s enough.

And then there are nights. A time to look back.
A time for mindless entertainment. Books. Mysteries.
Daydreams. Always daydreams
and the feeding of daydreams. You plan trips.
And you reconnect. Sit with your wife and your cats.
Review the day. There is an exchange of energy
that only happens with time and presence.

Night ends with dreams. The ones you do not control.
Vivid, atmospheric dreams. The one you love
features prominantly. So do Dali-esque landscapes
and symphonic soundtracks. Often nothing happens,
but when it does it is cataclysmic and wakes you
with a start and a moment of confusion
as you move from one world to the next.

And it begins again. Different time zones.
Different cultures in the same body,
each determining what you write or paint or do,
or at least, do well, whatever that is.

About this poem.

Our bodies, mind and emotions has a daily cycle. We can plow through it or learn to make the most of it. (There’s a fascinating and wonderful book called WHEN, by Daniel Pink that details this.). We can fight it. I know I often have. or we can go with it and make the most of what it. But you cannot deny it.

For me, I can do different kinds of work better at certain times of the day. I’ve been fortunate to be able to do that much of my life. One of the many blessings in my life.

I wrote this one at sevenish in the morning. Yes, the picture is of Big Ben, taken from a tour boat on the Thames on a rainy day.

Tom