Miss you, Buddy

This is a poem about sunrise.

This is a poem

about watching

red and pink respiration 

finesse the base 

of the horizon, 

with eyes closed 

knowing

that this is all there

really is. 

This is a poem 

about holding someone's 

hand or arm or 

your own hand or 

nothing 

and the rush of ... 

morning pours 

over you. 

 

This is just a poem 

about sunrise. 

This is not a poem 

about anything else. 

This is not a poem 

about a first date, 

the fact that you 

hate someone you 

used to love, 

getting snubbed by 

your crush, 

rushing to see someone 

who you haven't seen for 

ten hours 

and now it's almost eleven, 

heaven-sent individuals or - hell-bent residual mistakes. 

 

This poem is about 

the feeling you get 

getting up at home 

or elsewhere 

carefree and 

free to appreciate 

the elation based in 

the sun and 

encased in it's run 

along the tips of whatever 

it's framing. 

It's the same window 

with the same view but 

the difference is you. 

You've seen every sunrise 

...but your eyes 

are never prepared for 

what they share 

with the morning. 

It's about the 

first warming rays 

of the day 

erasing the night's decay and 

playing games with your levels 

of vitamin E. 

 

This poem is not about 

oppression, 

about how the possession of wealth 

has stealthily been divided 

among societyso that while we prioritize money 

it's funny that so many 

don't have enough, 

or about how tough it is 

to live the American dream 

if you didn't start out 

sleeping with riches.  

 

This poem is about 5:00 AM, 

when you're awake and 

don't have to be,

or you do have to 

but you happened to notice that 

below the blackness 

is opening up 

an orange hue and you 

forget how tired you are 

and that the stars are fading 

just that the trade from - night to day 

is amazing and 

the blazing ...entrance 

makes you remember that 

it might not always be 

just you and the sunrise 

but 

it is always 

you and the sunrise. 

 

This poem is not about 

some kid 

getting shot. 

This is not a day in the life 

or death 

of those of us left 

or the rest of the world 

swirled in eddies of 

bloodshed and lead "he's - down, he's down" 

About brown versus 

black versus 

white or 

red white and blue versus 

the rainbow 

throwing shells 

... and letting bombs drop. 

 

This is not a poem about

Iraq 

or Vietnam 

or any World War 

or before that the Civil War

or the Revolution 

or the pollution of the Americas 

or the feudal system 

or Troy

or one caveman 

killing another

with a rock. 

 

This is not a poem about anything 

except sunrise. 

It's about standing on 

the handrail 

of a second-story balcony 

thousands of miles 

from home 

with the smoke from your 

Black & Mild 

getting in your eyes 

as you strain to see the sun come up 

over the L.A. skyline. 

It's about sitting 

on the shore 

...of a secluded mountain lake 

alone 

at home with the water 

lapping 

the fog wrapping 

around your ankles 

and being thankful for 

everything in existence, 

which to you right now

is this sunrise. 

Sunlight goes much deeper 

than the eyes, 

it finds your center, 

and everyone must be meant to 

arise a little bit earlier. 

Our worlds revolve around 

our daily lives, 

but each day evolves from 

inside a sunrise. 

Wake up. 

-McKinley Lukes