I woke up, misty morning and rain fogging
the porch view.
A blank page rests on my table and my vision
gets foggy too.
So I settle and put the kettle to warm and fire-open
When I realized something,
Not sure if it is the stove still off or that I’m about to choke.
I guess I will need more coffee to refill my cup, to accompany me on my
So I cleared up my throat and swallowed those
I tuned in to a humming bird resonating a minuet and hymn
at least something in my morning is on key.
The kettle started whistling, joining the humming bird who rests
on the tree
in front of me. Then above me, are clouds hugging
pouring pellets of tears from the sky created
by their union.
Shading the already dim lit morning which painted gray
at least something in this morning feels romantic and not alone.
The humming bird goes on his lullaby, surprised that the tune awakes
Trying to lead me back to bed is a silent alarm returning
me to slumber
but I refuse to give back an answer.
Quite unsure , my view and my vision are not aligning. I just opened my blank pages anticipating.
Though the visions seemed crippled and too slow coming;
at least something this morning is ready to begin.
Finally, I just flipped the blank pages from a little black book with only
The slate in front of me is clean, tempted to soak a black ink from the pen I had used for years;
Either to stir the black coffee or the blank visions in my mind – I still
have to find.
Now a crooked line began as I attempt to mark a spot, finishing with more than just a dot;
at last one of the pages is not blank anymore.
It was supposed to be a novel which I’m trying
but what I had were only dots, and crooked lines affixed
on the dots.
When I read them I realized that what I had written
wasn’t that bad.
It turns out my blank pages had jotted down notes, whole and half notes forming a tune,
a melody I’m not sure I heard before, but sounded familiar when I started humming the notes.
Now the humming bird on the tree at the front porch finished his song
with a slur.
HE promised me that the next morning
He’ll come back;
so that something every morning will remind me:
“at least one of your senses is not broken, ready to take down another lullaby
as you choose to leave those blank pages open .”
Has anyone tried “Morning Blank Pages”? This is a poem telling an experience with morning blank pages. It is a routine I learned doing to help cope with brain fog in the morning.
(First published @ Launchora.com)
Thank you for reading!