Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
- Carl Sandburg
What does this mean? I'm not entirely sure. But I like it. So it's staying. At least for now.
Anywho, this is another poem I wrote a few years ago. I remember it was the summer I woke up before dawn almost everyday just to watch the sun rise (don't recall what year that was, but it was quite a while ago). I would sit outside on our back steps with my mug of freshly brewed coffee, a book, and the cat known as Peaches; and together we would watch the sun come up. It sounds more romantic than it was. Knowing how I live now, it also sounds crazy. These days I'm lucky if I wake up before lunch. But times were different back then. I actually worked at having a decent sleep schedule. Ah, to be young again.
So anyway, here's a poem:
Morning
Morning did not arrive quietly today.
It crashed in, guns blazing.
The wind chimes called out in a frenzy.
All the trees danced:
the young ones swayed,
the old ones groaned.
The air was thick with the promise of rain.
Clouds flashed in the distance.
Thunder was slow to follow,
but not for long.
Soon lightning was close enough to see.
White-hot lines shot down
like loose threads
as the sky came unraveled.
Thunder cracked, then rumbled.
It shook the world awake.
When the sky finally ripped open,
dreams fell down with the rain.
By Jamie Rueckert
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