Woken by nightingales
before the day is light
or the ocean full of whales
in the sea of the night.

Woken by the singing birds
before the day’s begun
the book filled up with humming words
and the sky filled up with sun.

What wakes from the dark

A collaborative poem with the Oracle, a puente.


Something is born when we wake out of the dark

into the cold grey light,

a stream that runs to the ocean,

bright as we want to make it, they say,

those same warm voices full of smiles that warn,

Don’t look back into the fire nor stare into the swaying branches,

just let the red rhythms of the night

flow into the slow green and blue,


~even though the window is broken~


and the wind blows cold,

learn to see the lies that shine too bright to be true.

Lead will not turn to gold through yearning,

life streams flow rough; the banks are high,

and time flies on relentless wings

always north into the wilds, but look,

even there in the clear brilliance of frozen air,

the stars.


The Daily Post prompt is: dream


Waking from a dream is hard,

When morning brings a bitter light,

And nothing calls beyond the sill.


At night I join the starlit dance,

Among the hopes that still shine bright,

Waking from a dream is hard.


The hollow ache beneath the ribs,

Begins as dawn-chased shadows fade,

When morning brings a bitter light.


No one holds out waiting arms,

The blackbird sings for other ears,

And nothing calls beyond the sill.


Sleep brings dark oblivion
The curtain falls on cares too hard to bear.
But morning always comes too soon
scattering the shadows in the east,
and ripples break the still night pools
with glittering spears of unwelcome light.
Though the pain returns,
The dull ache in the heart,
The blush of pink deepens on the rose
And dew hangs trembling on the leaf.
The sun will rise behind the bank of cloud
And the blackbird’s song is just as sweet.