Stephe Watson Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.

The Morning Calls Hour

The morning calls hour
has come, as daily it does...
ahead of dawn -

The whistles, the chirps,
the lilts and caws
have come
and filled the empty air;
the air so empty all light has fallen out;
perhaps through the sieve of stars.
Holes of light leaking sight
away into the other next,
or first,
or last.


The clouds drift past;
an ever-offering Eastern sky
dribbles endless puffs of white-stuff
which drift overhead.
Heading toward the light.
Unseen streams of air
both draw and push these yet-to-rains
from beyond the skyline
to beyond the treeline.

A huff-chuffing squirrel is overhead
cavorting and exhorting
in the mulberry-leafed maple
with
leaves so big and profligate
so
as to hide every branch.
There’s an urgency to its gutturality 
as it chatter-clambers through the
density of burgundy tree.

I’m in hot water again.
Soaking in the hot wet.
Writing tools all here -
Keyboard.
Tea.
Time...
The cat, important, though not a
tool.
Still, though - pressed into use,
as it were.

        But the thoughts         do not                     come.
Unlike the clouds, which we’re taught
are thoughts.  Or, is it, “...unlike the thoughts,
which are like the clouds.”?

But I don't have the thoughts, undercloud
(under dark cloud)
though I am.
Only these thoughts 
    which I very
                 very do not 
                                    like.

A lone goose now.
Also undercloud.
Also, aiming East.
To light.  To life.
To next.  To new.

Thoughtless.
And not unclouded.
So unlike my thoughts.

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