JUBILANT FATHER
His face is like a sun, warms the moon beside him.
She´s grown full; tonight begins the waning.
The tide pulls through her very bones,
her form aches as each wave crests.
The earth pulse, heavy, blood warm within her
Beats new chords, old sun god chants.
"You are the first mother and the last,
all spring flesh has traveled through you."
Aztec plumed and gold beaded,
your priest kneels at the holy alter,
gathers each salt pearl shed, nectar for his sacrament.
You are the temple,
we pilgrims swept through the gates,
bent figures know the scent and petals of your presence,
spread our arms to harvest blossoms,
and your priest, sun struck, kneels beside you.
Every morning I lie there innocently sleeping When the peace is ruptured by a horrible beeping. My serenity ripped asunder, sudden and drastic By this evil, demonic, red-eyed piece of plastic.
I roll over in pain and pound on the snooze, Groaning, moaning, thinking 'What's there to lose?' 'Don't make me get up, just nine minutes more.' The same thing I've said every morning before.
It's not that I hate mornings or dread the new day. It's just that I loathe waking up in this way. I'd much rather simply rise up with the light, Glowing in the window, chasing away the night.
But the sudden screaming, the incessant fuss, Makes me want to yell and cry and simply to cuss. Especially the knowledge that all of my sorrow Will be repeated the same time, same way, tomorrow.
