Morning Ghosts

Slow footsteps from the door to the street.
Grey mist hangs and surrounds everything.
The haze of dreaming has bled into waking.
Trees appear as if they were ghosts planted
into the ground. Listening for a sound or a 
word but there is only stillness. Rays of sun
are hidden but lurking. Awake but unsure.
Even the birds are silent. Eyes close. Listen.
Where is that which does not wish to be heard?

Edge of the Heavens

When you wake up to a gray and overcast morning
Ready to burst with rain do you feel inconvenienced
at the coming storm or do you ready yourself for the
deluge I'll often sit and find myself writing about the
view outside and the shifting moods of my mind in
those early hours Obscured by the clouds but I know
the sun is hidden behind the wall of rain It has to be
It is There is nothing here but relief at another day
under the edge of the heavens

Morning at the Beach

Waves foam on the sand

like the mouth of a rabid dog.

It is too early for anyone 

but the most dedicated

of surfers or locals to be 

at the beach so early in the day.

I eat my breakfast alone

and in peace from the patio

of the bar. They serve quite

the good meal.

Summer is not the best season

here. It is best in Winter

as the chill enters your marrow

and the wind turns your hair

into a piece of modernist art.

I have nowhere to be.

I am in no rush to move

any faster than necessary.

I see a surfer in a partially

unzipped wetsuit

hauling his board beneath

his right arm.

I remain seated as he passes 

me without a glance.