A Morning poem, what a novel concept. I had a restless night, and rose feeling shaky and hollow. The estrogen-replacement therapy I’m on messes with my sleep, which I struggled with before my surgeries and that is becoming a growing problem in my life. The late night poem sessions are helping my creative soul, but don’t do much to safeguard my sleep. So my plan tonight, after working late, is to go straight to bed. I wonder about the sleep habits of my muses. Did Anna Akhmatova wake constantly in the night, with random phrases mixed with dream shards rolling through her guts? Let’s hope so.
At one point last night I woke up thinking about Israel and Palestine. That’s not restful night pondering at all. I think I’ve got a little something to go on there, but who knows what words it will bring. But, in the interests of getting this done early so I can play with my kiddos before going to work, work hard, and then come home to bed, it’s what I’m going with:
The faithful rockets cast unseasonal shadows down upon the boy playing in the debris. He plays with rocks. He plays with rocks and builds cities in the dust, he is a builder of nations in the rubble, a great ruler of small countries, and the tunnels he digs are just for fun. There are no bloodlines in his land, no borders either, there are many tongues, some of them not even borne yet, they all gurgle in the mind of the boy, who has turned his attention to the roadways and checkpoints, arming them with pebbles. He has seen his toys turned into weapons but prefers them on the ground, prefers them to the yelling adults and the explosions that hurt his ears and make his mother cry. He prefers to sit and build in the dirt, and above his cities in the dirt, above his broken city, the rockets sound like doorslams.
I don’t know. Morning poems are hard. Morning poems about Israel and Palestine are very hard. Happy Sunday, Poem friends. Let’s all think about peace today.