A poem about daydreaming
Statements of Fact
The morning placed its cold
clammy hand on my shoulder,
its fingers closing on the bone
as I read my paper.
Three pigeons conspired
atop a brown brick wall,
the middle one never breaking
eye contact with me.
The blue coffee mug was home
to a tribe of Indians,
their campfire spiraling up
to my still sleepy nostrils.
You entered the living room
through a dusty sunbeam,
your smile closing the drawers
of my thoughts, one by one.
Comments
I like the tribe of Indians living in the blue coffee mug. Nice poem Darryl. Voted up.
Very creative. I could feel your mood as I sat along side you sharing your coffee and muse.
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Cheers, Gypsy :-)
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Thanks Anna :-)
Enjoyed and great imagery.
Good imagery here. Liking the watchful pigeons :)
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Thanks Lurana :-)
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Thanks, Valleypoet. It was a very slow morning so I had to nudge them all along ;-)
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Thanks, kidscrafts. Indeed, we have so many that the city announced last week that it plans to take "measures" to reduce their numbers!
The morning, the pigeons, and even your coffee have all been given personality here...nicely done :-))
The image of the morning's cold hand on the shoulder is so striking, and I love this line: "your smile closing the drawers
of my thoughts, one by one"...that is pure poetry! ~Lurana
Nice poem, Darryl!
There are a lot of pigeons in Belgium (especially in the Brussels area), so I am not surprised that 3 of them are watching you ;-)
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