The morning has broken

The morning has broken and I know for once
it wasn’t me, I touched nothing but on the other hand
you have to break some eggs to make an omelette

I am goggling ‘Love poems for her’ why cos I have a vested interest
but I have discovered there truly is a lot of shite out there that’s Crap
with a capital C

I cannot find what I want

how about

She Walks in Beauty – Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Yes it is good but it is not quite what I want today

Or maybe

Music, when soft voices die… – Percy Bysshe Shelly

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

But what to say

What to say well maybe

New light – Bruce Ruston

What new birth’d light was I keen
but left this night to open slumber
this new pains fashion fastidious
was I now oft to such slow plunder
and pillage’d fast and a little phased
in an honest haste but quite serious

attentive to moments now long past
let go the dice the for times are cast

Well this is an 19th – 20th Century thought about how sometimes you just can’t find the right words in the right order and even funny can’t get you out of this one.


17 thoughts on “The morning has broken”

  1. Good morning Bruce, I slept four hours back to being my coffee addicted self. I stopped by to offer a couple of more up to date wooing poems, if these can’t get your foot untangled from the stirrup, I don’t know what can, cheers 😉
    “I gather up
    each sound
    you left behind
    and stretch them
    on our bed.
    each nite
    I breathe you
    and become high.”
    ~Sonia Sanchez

    AND this one too:

    ‘Carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon,’

    Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
    dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
    what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
    What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
    Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
    through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
    Love is a war of lightning,
    and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
    Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
    your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
    and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
    slips through the narrow channels of blood
    to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
    to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.
    ~Pablo Neruda

  2. oh, oh–here are my favorite two…

    ‘Perhaps not to be is to be without your being.’

    Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
    without your going, that cuts noon light
    like a blue flower, without your passing
    later through fog and stones,
    without the torch you lift in your hand
    that others may not see as golden,
    that perhaps no one believed blossomed
    the glowing origin of the rose,
    without, in the end, your being, your coming
    suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
    blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
    and it follows that I am, because you are:
    it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
    and, because of love, you will, I will,
    We will, come to be.
    Pablo Neruda

    and then…

    somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

    by E. E. Cummings

    somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
    any experience,your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me, i and
    my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
    compels me with the color of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
    and opens;only something in me understands
    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
    nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

    Geeze, is anyone sappier than a poet when she falls in love? I don’t think so–I am joyously and unrepentantly sappy.

  3. Ha…I thought the pictures was perfect for the frustration you were feeling about finding the right words….which generally come from your heart and pen than from other’s…good luck with that!

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