The Children's Hour by Alan Catlin
Every morning, just before
dawn, mother lights the storm
lamp she uses to shine my eyes,
whistles the tune night birds
have taught her and says,
One day they will sing for you.
Listen how happy they are.
I listen but hear nothing.
Alan Catlin has been working in the poetry trenches for parts of five decades. He is retired from his unchosen profession as a barman and has published dozens of collections of prose and poetry, both large and small. He has some awards and honors, won and lost some contests and has nominations for stuff that made sense only to people who did the nominating. He is currently the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His last print collection is four thematically chapbooks in one book called “Alien Nation."
Every morning, just before
dawn, mother lights the storm
lamp she uses to shine my eyes,
whistles the tune night birds
have taught her and says,
One day they will sing for you.
Listen how happy they are.
I listen but hear nothing.
Alan Catlin has been working in the poetry trenches for parts of five decades. He is retired from his unchosen profession as a barman and has published dozens of collections of prose and poetry, both large and small. He has some awards and honors, won and lost some contests and has nominations for stuff that made sense only to people who did the nominating. He is currently the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His last print collection is four thematically chapbooks in one book called “Alien Nation."
