Beautiful is the Morning


I sit at the table; fork in hands.

Coffee so bold, it shakes where it stands.

I sit at the table, but not on it sides.

The middle beckons, where it evenly divides.

I sit at the table, indulged in the awakened.

Beautiful is the morning, and scrumptious is the bacon.

I sit at the table, with a head full of thanks.


For the light anew, to be quite frank.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A lovely morning...the little things that make you feel so small yet so grand.


A fireworks show
Even those who have not been created
On display in splendor and grace

The force of her beauty
Over the warm waters
Warm lake of desires

Is warm body
Of women
who loves
in loneliness

small buds
Breaking into blossom
Beautiful, energetic, bright and smiling
As an umbrella under a sudden rain

It is the illusion of a possible meeting
They expand neurons
As rivers that grow with rain
To reach the sea

Neurons that expand
Flowers that bloom in bursts
It's only poetic devices to sweeten
The unbearable bitterness
Living without you

It is poetry or madness?
Hallucinations are shaking my body
Exhauta leaving, lying
dead woman

Exits the internal observer
To advertise, simply
Let my beloved
Not by me

I refuse to accept that voice
That only brings the experience and culture
Obsolete and transcended
Stopped paying attention!

As already dead and lying
After the bitter taste
And laugh at loneliness
Start the new day
enero 7/13

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Sweet morning rose.

Morning dew glistens
upon the soft scented petals
of a beautiful rose
awakened by the warming sun
to display it's inner beauty
as it starts to unfold
in celebration
along with joyful bird song
as a new day has begun.

Peter Dome.copyright.2012.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

What a great time of day. Every new day, should be a celebration.

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Sleepy Subroutine

Sweetest departures, no longer infrequent,
but daily and dallying - almost routine;
a subliminal thing to keep my ears ringing
just long enough to mask what's drawing near.
I still love surprises. I'd seek them each day,
but the clock has been calling and crying of duty;
masking its scent with fine coffee grounds,
and spinning perversely, in reverse as to fool
me towards thinking I'll never be late for anything, ever.

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