Morning has Broken

Morning has broken.

School, rustling knees about the parquet floor,

Scabs and mud and the rub of patent shoes.

Togetherness- all gathered as one before the time we begun to question the world.

The headmaster, with Welsh melodic tones, takes to the podium,

like others I’ve seen, in church.

A place I only frequent for weddings and christenings- no funerals yet.

He rests his foot on the wooden plinth and rocks, cradling the bookrest as he speaks.

He is ardent about his theme, an ardour I’ll remember all the days of my life.

Singing: all together. Loud: not sure if anyone can hear me- not sure

If it is my own voice or the multitudes of others.

I did not grow to be a Christian, but what I feel when I hear that piano intro

Must be at least akin to those of a believer

Standing anew every morning beneath the stained-glass window.

The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part 1

She was 4 when she became aware of carnage, devastation and brutality;
she came in through the breezeway,
the red brick linoleum was sticky,
her grandmother was standing over the freshly cut sweet corn
singing “Sweet Adeline” ,
the girl crossed from the threshold of the kitchen into the dining room,
reality stings like acid –
her mother was towered viciously over her two year old sister,
cursing, slapping – the girl pulled on her mother’s arm, “STOP!”,
the mother turned with her hand raised to begin wailing on another victim,
the little girl tensed up, getting ready –
the mother hesitated – the little sister crawled away,
in a moment of clarity, the mother stomped off, cursing…
the girl went to her crying sister, red whelps over her tender skin,
“are you ok?”
the younger sister kicked the girl in the gut –
her way of saying, “I’m fine, leave me to lick my wounds;”
in those moments the poet was born,
the girl suddenly became aware of wishing not being born,
and her bunker was created behind the red vinyl couch,
still on the front lines,
still vulnerable to the brutal sounds of war.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 8:20 AM part 1 of 24

Something New

I roll out of bed

and hit the floor moaning

Yes, it can be said:

How much I hate morning


On a Saturday yet,

When I’d normally sleep in

But, a challenge I’ve set

And now it begins.

The Uninspired

I’ve tired to inspire

The uninspired

Wasted words

Wasted ways

Wasted time

Just to play

Feelings of an empty shell

A starlet that fell

A love to sell

Common thoughts to see you through

Fought with fight

In the dead of night

A love not right

Darkness of light

Another moon to see

For lovers, but not for we

A love that I just couldn’t be

So it disappears for me


In The Beginning

The cool breeze caressing her skin the butterflies mingling within. Her heartbeat like the bass line his fingertips were the lyrics. It was like a quiet storm a trouble brewing within when feelings started growing and they were no longer friends. In The Beginning

Going Home

With the morning comes hope

With the morning comes a new start;

A loved one no longer in pain

A family no longer apart.

For up in Heaven the angels dance

As Jesus comes forward to say;

“Welcome home, child, we love you so”

We are all God’s children, no matter our age.


I immediately stood
The morning had come
I was fresh
Of what will come
Ironically it hit me that this is how everyday is
We never know what words will come out of our mouth each hour
I lay on the deck
Flipped through the thesaurus
I am a vessel of letters…

My Favorite Color is Soul- Mate

Our souls frolicked, in the fields of the first shades of purple,

the thousands of years seemingly flew,

nothing short of the whisper of a butterfly’s wing,

to the thundering pulse of the hummingbird’s fleeting flight.

We grew old together,

before we grew up,

before we were born.

We hid sunrises in window sills,

sacred stories sewn in the beams.

Every morning became a dream,

every night lasted forever and a century.

You became my favorite color,

in the star-studded sky and cloud-filled day,

I find you in a new shade: soul-mate.


There it is.

The threshold.

The starting gate.

The point of


Clean gold.

Awaiting ignition from some spark of


And this one.

And this.