The Poem as a Place of Insight

I sleep but the poem’s words
hold their vigil,
a swarm of falcons
turning and turning in the sky within
so much that I feel a little dizzy
as I wake at morn,
their fresh taste wet on my lips,
like mist in the rising sun
quickly fading before
I could capture them,
leaving me with their flame
burning in my bones
and keeping me alive all day
with an ache for the unfathomable,
whispering strange things to my ear
that each day drive me a little closer
to the edge of madness
where I can finally begin to see
the world just as it is.


At Dawn

Waking up before dawn, waiting for the first birdsong. Exquisitely melodious as it echoes in the deep nocturnal silence that is becoming tainted with shades of blue and white. As the light and noise thicken and as the day begins to wake, the silence is eroded and the melody loses in its ring and quality though it continues further on until the day is fully roused. Nothing, for me, beats the magic and poetry of these wonderful beginnings. Now, on the edge of winter, I wait for spring and summer when the melodious song can be accompanied by the hum of crickets, a soft wind breeze, and the stars as they slowly disappear from the whitening sky. I will always wait for the first birdsong at dawn.