Poem-A-Day #347 : Ritual

Ritual

waking
the crease on your nose
becomes the sign of roots
in the pipes

a growth - twitches
there is a need to cleanse
the night from us
enter newness

shed the pillows and
down water over
shoulders over heads
pop the bubbles

in the dim
of shirts and pants and
you will seem less
but also more

Matutinal

Matutinal 7/22

It goes pink first – soundless blush on the blue
then the little pips come up

They chat to each other – quiet and to themselves
until the first bus rises and moves

After the televisions wake – and tune up the news
as the stoves of the city bacon

It rises – converges until it is a booming
a swelling ocean of day-rise