Woke
A poem by Michael Hawkes
Awakened,
Semi-conscious
In a comfy realm
Of eiderdown and underwear.
I raise my drowsy head
Above the duvet clouds
To survey the sunlit morning
Bursting rudely, irrepressibly
Into every corner of my space.
But am I ready
With the dripping faucet
To face another day
In contemplation of my anguish,
Thick and addled, permeating,
Amorphous, hard to place?
Shall I pull
The bed clothes up,
To burrow in
As though forgetting
And try to hide
My permanent disgrace?
My shame for having trod
The earth so roughly,
For having left a heavy trace.
Or surrender
To the power of sunshine,
Venture out and fall
Contagiously repentant
Into its mad embrace?
25/09/22 – Hawkes
Feature image: Ketut Subiyanto, Pexels
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[/col][col size=”10″]Michael Hawkes is a survivor of all the world’s wars. He learned (and loved to rhyme) by torturing the hymns he had to sing at school. A retired West Coast fisherman living in Montreal since 2013, he is an unschooled Grandpa Moses writing an average of five poems every week.
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Loved it as I do most of your poetry