Morning Poetry

morning has come and you wake up and open
as a form of instinct
your computer.
Teeth not brushed.
Hair scattering.
Mote still in the eye.
without thinking you
start scribbling.
Type what is in
your mind.
Instinctively.

This is what you want.
Morning as a form of
literary instinct.
No serious thought
just plain stream of
consciousness.
You pause.

You look outside
the glass window.
Pierce through.
There are no people
here.
The pavements is
as silent
as the wall.
Mute World.

The air blows.
Leaves fall.
Some careless
droppings
of migrating
birds.

why is poetry getting
to be an instinct?
Habit of the mind.
Exercises of
the heart.
Like plain
jogging.
Stretching of the
imagination
like arms
of the sky.

The sun comes out.
Light scatters on
my scattered hair.
I feel the
thickness of
my gums.
Teeth are always
patient.

Heart beats.
Mind shrinks.
Words dominate.
A new world
is born.

You do not exist
in my mind.
i deny you.
there is no space
here.
i point to the
tip of my
head,
i touch the
side of my
chest.

I forget
one thing.
Someone
is here.
always
instinctively
unnoticed.

O God!
Is that you?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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