The Passing of Summer

 The wind and rain stopped by last night,
 Had a few minor temper tantrums outside
 As I stood watching from the door.
 They slapped the trees limbs around a bit
 And kicked at bits of loose trash in the street.
 Nothing more violent than that.
  
 No pushing down trees.
 No pummeling hail.
 Rather calm for a storm.
 Yet it killed the heat of summer,
 Murdering it without a hint of passion
 And ushering in a cold windy day 
 To begin the fall to winter.
  
 At dawn,
 I stand here,
 Warming myself 
 With this cup of coffee,
 Mourning a summer
 That passed without passion.
   

Down a Dark Hall – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Down the dark hall
She stumbled,
Running,
Trying to get away from the monster.

Down the dark stairs,
She fell,
Tumbling,
Falling away from the monster.

At night,
In the darkness
Of this house,
She now knew,
Knew monsters were real.

She screamed
Into the night darkness
Of the basement kitchen
As the monster caught her
By the arm.
She heard the low swooshing sound
Of the metal yardstick
Thrumming through the air.
She screamed again at the impact
Upon her back.

Behind her
Into the darkness
She looked
And saw
The monster’s face.

Down into the darkness,
She wished she could fall
When she knew
At the age of nine
Any monster could wear
A mother’s drunken face.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You…

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Heart and Soul

 Tell me a truth 
 of burning flames.
  
 Better yet,
 Chant me all the truth
 Of a holy rosary.
  
 Or would you whisper a truth
 Of a head on a silver platter.
  
 Perhaps, you’d like to
 Express the truth
 Of a dance through the city.
  
 Or act out the truth
 In the washing of your hands.
  
 Could you do all that,
 Plus destroy a temple or two,
 And it be the truth 
 Of your heart?
  
 I know you say it would
 But no bushes burn,
 No seas part,
 No lepers heal, 
 No dead rise
 When you know nothing
 Of your own heart and soul. 

Modern Prometheus becomes The Little Stranger

Originally posted on Braveandrecklessblog.com

 So now we know,
 You told me I wasn’t,
 But I was—
 Your creation.
  
 Said you loved me
 Just the way I was—
 But was it true?
  
 Yes, I was perfect
 Just the way I was—
 You said,
 But you didn’t care for:
 My curly hair,
 My dresses,
 My high heels,
 My red lipstick.
  
 So, I became a cut out,
 Of the rest of my parts
 With the parts you inserted,
 A sewn together woman.
 Then electrified and brought back
 To life by a love you claimed
 Was for the true me.
  
 Now the parts you inserted
 Die away, shriveling at the lack
 Of your electricity.
 I stumble,
 A stiff-legged walk to your door,
 Shuck this graying shit and warm myself
 By the fire I create to burn
 These rigor mortised parts.
 Thus, I become something more akin
 To myself once again—
 That little stranger
 With curly hair,
 Wearing dresses,
 High heels,
 And signature whore red—
 I become
 My little one.
  
    

Red Heart Cedar

This red heart cedar stump,
With its dark crevasses
And holes where bugs had homes,
Was sanded smooth.
A urethane finish added for shine
And protection.
The rings are visible still,
Rings that count the years
Until the tree fell in a storm,
Twisted from the earth
By tornadic winds.

Thus, I found it
In the yard.
Took the chain saw to the tree,
Cut it into chunks,
Along with the others that fell
That day while the dog and I
Sought shelter from the storm.

Now I sand and chisel away.
Routing out some hearts concave,
Bowls to be used for filling
At some future date,
Now standing empty.
Sanding some hearts level,
Tables to be used for holding things,
Yet these are empty too.

All this red heart cedar,
Once stood filled with life,
Now stands empty.

With My Eyes

Behind you,
the window blinds closed.
A faint early morning light
Surrounding you
as you slip from bed,
clutching a silky robe.
Your cloak of confidence
worn to shreds by the shyness
of your fingers flexing
round the collar of the robe
before you slip it
over you—
my breath
stolen
away
to look at you then–

Then I knew–
Byron had it wrong
with all his talk of night.
As did Botticelli
with his giant shell.
As I watched you
slip from bed
in the early morning light,
a word occurred,
just a word, a simple thought,
ran through my head,
I’ll not say it
for you’ll not believe it.

Since I can not give you
my eyes
with which to see,
and with your own
you see only flaws
and imperfections of time
magnified, as do we all, I know.
Yet add the all, the total,
the in and out of you
together,
you
standing there,
golden,
your fingers clutching
the collar of a silky robe–
my breath
stolen.

Had Byron or Botticelli seen,
perhaps then,
with their high art
and immeasurable talents,
it would have been captured,
as so many artists have tried
and failed to do.
Then you would see
Yourself with my eyes
that see—
in this soft, golden light of early morning,
a being of some ancient religion
who decided to take flesh
and walk the earth.

In a lifetime,
my words never capturing,
my talent far too small,
too paltry, too pedestrian
to ever encompass
all—
everything I see
in
everything I feel
for
the everything
you are

Featured Post: If You Could Be Mine – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Friends surprise with a birthday dinner.
Then out to the bar for a few drinks.
They laugh and wink
When a tiny little thing
With long, dark shining hair
That looks so velvety soft
That to touch it would be
To fall up into a rural night sky
Of inky black laced
With the light of
A thousand stars,
Smiles at me,
And with the encouragement of her friends,
Asks me for a dance.
But she is young,
Much too young for me.

But I like the way she moves as if just for me.
I think I could do this just like I used to in my youth.
Something stirs within as if of old muscle memory
Of how to divorce the physical from the spiritual.
Yes, just like in my youth.
I could take her home,
Whisper things like,
“If you could be mine….”
And really go to…

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Featured Post: The Truth That Never Hurts – M.A. Morris

Brave & Reckless

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a garden?
Of the Texas sky?
Of a home?
Or an empty house?

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a love?
Of the human heart?
Of a parent?
Of a child?
Of a dog?
Or even God?

When did the truth
Contained in each
Contain no pain?
No hurt?
Not a scrap?
Not a speck?


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

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