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from the window

in the cold dark before dawn,
water for coffee just beginning
to boil,

frost forms on silhouettes
of nightmare’s dream.

kettle whistles silently
from dusk light kitchen,

dream continues to bleed
a drop at a time on the clean
breakfast floor.

light is breaking fast now,
i see it through the window,

falling on sleeping winter tree limbs--
bleeding dreams of their own,

as i pour scalding water over
ground children of violence,
far from their mountain homes--
bitter black good morning america.

from the window, through the coffee,
a bundled woman walks her morning dog,
tail wagging fiercely.

on the street, cars convey
weekend working stiffs
to dead end jobs.

leonard cohen plays sweetly
in the coffee air of this long, narrow room,

diamond hard frost sharpens the dream,
silhouettes fade to grey, fall from sight,
another day begins.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Editing stage: 

Comments

You really manage to create an atmosphere of loneliness, in this piece.

Lou

Stand tall, be proud to be who you are, give the world the finger!!!!

Thanks, Lou.

I suppose that is because when I wrote this piece I was lonely. It just came out like that, and it wasn't even intentional. This poem is 31-years-old, and I am drawing from my archives to post because I am busy with a novel, and haven't been writing a lot of poems. At that time and most others loneliness and I have become well acquainted.

Ciao,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Some dreams are easily forgotten. Then there are the other ones............ I really liked "sleeping winter tree limbs"..scribbler

Thanks, Stan.

I remember the morning that I wrote this piece. It was a Sunday, and winter time. A light snow had fallen on Nashville during the night, and the whole world was quiet, at least my little part of it. There were lots of nightmares since the Nam, and rising early on this particular Sunday was occasioned by one. That mood slipped out of my pen onto the paper, and this poem was created. Outside the window was a silver maple tree with a dusting of snow gracing the tops of its limbs, so it got into the act, too.

VIctor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Yes, Shirley, dreams are weird mostly, and wonderful at other times. I prefer the latter to the former. Most nights it's science fiction/action-suspense between my ears as I try to remain asleep.

Thanks me darlin'

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Jayne-Chloe,

How nice to see the traces of your fingertips striking the keys once again~!~! "I cant find fault but its late and I am tired" Perhaps when you are more awake you shall.

Always good to hear from you, dear.

Love,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

This is very good, evocative and vivid.

only this

"kettle whistles silently
from dusk light kitchen,"

did not fit, for me. Perhaps "dusk-dim" or "dusk-gray" instead? Dusk and light just do not seem to go together, in a poem set in early morning.

This...

"as i pour scalding water over
ground children of violence,
far from their mountain homes--
bitter black good morning america."

really rocks, particularly because it is so intense, in such an otherwise smooth and quiet piece. You took the dregs of nightmare and brought them into the real world, and it works very well.

Respectfully, Jim

"Laws and Rules don't kill freedom: narrow-minded intolerance does" - Race-9togo

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/Race_9togo

Jim,

kettle whistles silently
from dusk light kitchen,

Was just what it was. My tea kettle that I used to boil water had lost its whistle tooter, or whatever it is named, and the light in the room was very dusky. I had just moved into the apartment, and I was surrounded by boxes to be unpacked. It was a long narrow room, and at the end where the kitchen was that kind of light at the beginning of the day when night begins to fade, and the sun's light begins to shine on spinning Earth, so dusk light was even used at the wrong time of day. I thought about changing it, but decided to leave it because it fit just fine for that morning.

Thank you, much.

Ciao,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Rosina,

I had typed a response to your note, and for the life of me, I don't know what happened to it, so I will begin again.

Leonard Cohen was playing while I was writing this poem, and his voice and music often paint a scene with an ambiance that this poem portrays. This poem is an autobiographical moment or two -- all true.

Thank you,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

Rosina,

Sometimes a lyric or a tempo, or the name of the band or piece will create a vision of words. Better hurry while they are in front, or they are just gone.

Thanks~!~!

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

You've been a poet for a very long time, Victor. An excellent poet. A very excellent poet.

Thank you for sharing.

~A

Anna,

Coming from you, your words are indeed an honour. I think the same of your verse.

Thank you.

Love,

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment

This is just superbly written.

I read this as a beautiful description of the breaking of a new but cold foggy morning.

No nightmares in this description as far as I could read, and the lines

"as i pour scalding water over
ground children of violence,
far from their mountain homes--
bitter black good morning america."

are just a wonderful reference to a cup of coffee being made!

Interesting... in the past two days I have read two very different, yet both wonderfully detailed and evocative descriptions of the breaking of the day.

This one is VERY good work.

An added bonus kudo: If 31 years ago you were listening to Cohen, you are definitely someone after my own heart!

Psyve

Psyve,

Thank you so much for your kind comments.

Yes, I have been listening to Leonard Cohen for at least 40 years. Definitely one of my favourites!

Victor

"When a pickpocket meets a holy man all he sees are his pockets."

Unknown (at least to me)

author comment
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