Darkness Was On the Face of the Deep!

I rose at four a.m.

Wished for some new

Deliverance of food

Of which I’d found deceit

Never thought to eat

Words upon pages

Of poetry, my daily

Food of thorough

For nothing upon day

Which to watch moon

Beams bouncing through

My glass window, edged

With frost, outside ninteen

Below Fahrenheit, bluster

Wind sliding with permafrost

Air digging into bear oak floor

With my stocking feet, toes

Curled into crevices, joints

Where slats come together

Forming my night into day

Only light switched on,

Now I could see upon snow

Slick with crust of ice

Crust upon night turned

To sliver of first light

How did six turn

From clock to seven

Where went night

Into day, hallucination of four

Thirty a.m. I padded my way

On kitchen floor, toes cureled

Up, floor could be so cold

Only oatmeal bowl steeming

With raisins, brown sugar,

Lump of butter, melting

Before my eyes, I stired

With teaspoon, cooled

With my breadth, dove

With spoon head-first

Mouth around metal upper

Lip of small ladle, oh teaspoon

Of fine oat witnessed my

Taste buds, eyes to morsals

Steaming ino mouth

My first bite against

Flightless morning,

Only now gaining onĀ  hungar

Pallet, esophagus, slide

Into empty lining expanding

Hungry I emptied bowl

Delight, followed by same

Teaspoon into carton

Of yogurt, beauty

Of rosy strawberries

Suspended in gel of

Light milk, mild then

As taste cooled my

Waiting tongue more

Gracious, I’d forgotten

Prayer of thansgiving

For juice, oatmeal

Yogurt, milk,

Brown sugar, raisins,

Laddered hunk of butter

Oh God thank you

For food, Jesus Christ

Who died that I might

Be delivered oh Holy Spirit, tommorow

To peer into January snow, thus

Food, into my being, from

His Being, sanctity of kitchen

I gave depth of thankfulness.


Published by elgwynone

I was a University and community college instructor before retiring. I also worked in fast food restaurants, and retail stores. I am an ordinary man writing for because I want to write and because my education prepared me to write; BA English lit, MA English, EdS higher education, and MFA creative writing, free verse poetry and essays. Blogs are an answer to high-priced self-publishing. Walt Whitman had to self-publish his first 1000 copies of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass because in 1855 poetry did not sell. Most poets make a living in other ways than writing. Wallace Stevens was an insurance executive, and TS Eliot was a banker. Many writers teach, and always there have been writers who have written because they needed to express their thoughts and feelings. They wrote not necessarily to make money but to express "the old universal truths of the human heart" according to Faulkner. Here I reach a wider audience I missed than by self-publishing, and I stand a better chance to reach a wider audience for less expense than self-publishing. I self-published my first books, Winter from Spring, and Meditations on Gratitude; poetry and photo books which were easier to self-publish than to seek a not to seek a publisher company. This blog allows me to write for an interested audience because I write poetry and personal essays. I write for a friendly audience and present to you a slice of my writing. Perhaps you will enjoy what you read.

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