Muddled Dawn

It is early dawn and the day is yet defined
The eastern horizon is covered in a mist
That has muddled the first attempts at morning.
Purple, yellow orange and red swirl together
Behind that opaque curtain in the distance
As if they are beauty contestants
Vying for the title of Queen of the Day.
As I sit and wonder about the winner.
Which shall introduce the wonderment?
The joy of a new day rolling along 
Toward me through the misty morn.
Flashing finally brilliant and bright.
Which shall win the prize and glow
In the eastern sky
Purple, yellow, orange or red?

Muggy Morning

The promise of dawn is already summer muggy
Trees rustle with an autumn dryness
Sinking their roots deeper into parched earth
The birds that will sing good morning are asleep still
Savoring the infrequent gusts of wind
The first hints of morning are almost unwelcome
It promises to be a hot, uncomfortable day
A farmer rises early, unable to sleep
Hitches up his overalls and steps outside
Scanning the horizons for any sign of rain
His hopes of a storm, for a cooling mist
Sink low with each blink of his eyes.
It is summer, hot, uncaring summer.

Early Morning Back Roads

An early morning drive
Over back roads
Down country paths 
So long ago taken.

Celestial Shades

The morning sky was washboarded
With red and orange hued clouds
As if God was raising celestial shades
Pulling back the curtains on a glorious day.











 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Dayton, Cincinnati, Columbus and all through Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Early Morning Passage

Even as I pass through quickly
In the dark and misty dawn
The hills call to me, sing to me
The engine races in my old truck
My heart races in my chest
Glimpses of hollers, left and right
Catch the corners of my still sleepy eyes
Old dogs rise from the yards
Of a dozen sturdy houses
They look at me as if to say,
"Where y'all been so long?
Why run off so fast?
Can't ye come on up
And sit a spell?"









 Stephen Hollen is an award winning storyteller, humorist and Mark Twain Impersonator living in Beavercreek, Ohio.  He performs and tells stories in Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana, Tennessee, West Virginia, Michigan and throughout the USA. 

Dog Damp Morning

The morning is wet dog damp and cold
Sunrise is slow to climb over the horizon
Dawn moves toward me as if confused.
Night is gone, washed from earth's sleepy eyes
Day seems to linger on the other side of the world
As if someone over there is unwilling to pass it on.

Morning Glory

This day is a small thing
Fragile and morning delicate
Orange, wrapped carefully
In china cup blue.
full of promises, hopes, dreams.
Morning glory, slowly unfolding.

Wet Dog Day

It is a dark and dampy, misty morning
A smelly wet dog, flea bitten day
Thunder cracker-boomer-banger
Rumble an' grumbly sort of start
Snuggle buggle under quilts an' covers
Hide your head an' roll right over day
A day for fires burnin' slow like,
Woodstoves cherry reddish kinda morn.

Awaiting the Dawn

Those who love the dawn rise up early
Quietly slipping out of bed to dress quickly
Stepping down old stairs one by one
That one spot, comfortable and warm
Waits for us, inviting us to sit and watch
The spectacle of night giving way to day.
Sometimes our hands grip mug or china cup
Full of coffee, tea, warming hands and body
As the beginning of a new day warms the earth.
It is dark just now, still a few stars in the night sky
Yet soon, very soon the eastern sky will shimmer
Just hints of pink at first, then reds, oranges will filter in
And creation will replay that first day
When God stepped out into the darkness, looked around
Threw out a multitude of suns that rolled through the Heavens
Bumping and careening through creation, finding just the spot
Settling in and beginning to spin, throwing off sparks
Warming and glowing, bringing life and waiting, waiting
Till God, that Master Painter grins, lifts hand to a canvas of nothing
And speaks soft and low, not wanting to take all the glory
Gently, He spins that big old ball of gasses we await
"Let there be light."  And it was so.

So, we sit and wait, patiently.
Warm in the darkness, content,
For the first glimpse of morning on the horizon
For the first glimpse of dawn.

Sunrise

I have sat in my sunroom this morning, watching the wind blow the trees to one side. The darkness of night was still wrapped around the landscape. Though it is not the coldest of mornings, the wind makes me glad to be indoors and only watching. Smoke and steam curl up from the homes below. I sit and wonder if anyone is up other than me. All is quiet here and no lights are on in the homes I can see.

Silently, like a surprise party, morning has tiptoed in and shown itself in slow glory. In the east, on the horizon it started; hints of gold and orange, reds that remind me of the fireball just over the hills yonder. In obedience the clouds and sky turn a majestic shade of purple to compliment the brushstrokes morning slowly takes.

I do not know how long I have sat, hypnotized, taken by the beauty unfolding down the hills, just past the hollers and eastward. It is like waiting for eternity to begin, and then, suddenly, it is there.

The sun has yet to appear. The colors sent out are like pages, heralds coming from the east to trumpet the glory of the King of Heaven.

There, can you see, above the horizon, the sun has slipped behind the clouds and is high in the sky already, leaving the lesser reminders, the lovely reds and oranges on the tops of the trees as it flung itself high and above the horizon. Tricky sun, bright glowing thing, you startled me as you appeared.

Now it is gone again, the wind pushes the clouds over the sun for a while. It is waiting in the wings to make another appearance.