Turn toward the hours passed.
Size them and arrange.
Let soak in dyes of prism colors
As the minutes pass away and then
Lift them, dripping dye,
To hang in the warming sun
Over tight strung wire.
Watch the colors drip, splashing on the floor.
Wet splotches collecting in puddles
Of liquid silk to be mopped away
As the hours drip colored dye
In the drying of time.
Month: March 2020
Could You, Would You
Could you, would you
know the darkness too?
Or would you try to erase it
as others do?
Would you ignore it?
Say you wanted it gone?
Say your touch
should drive away
the darkness within?
The darkness is there–
inside me,
it has always been,
I need it, need it to be there,
just a spot or two.
I need it to visit, take a trip with it.
Occasionally—
ride a night, a day, all the stars at times,
sleep and wake with it.
It keeps me strong,
this steel skeleton of my heart and soul,
keeps me whole,
makes me who I am.
My darkness does not need
some antidepressant elixir.
My darkness is a shit pile of things,
years, and incidents I keep
tucked away–
a part of me.
Could you, would you
know it?
Keep it, if given?
Or tell me to let it go and get over it
like others have?
Could you, would you
understand how happiness can be had
and yet keep the darkness
for creating, repairing,
reinforcing the steel railings
of my spine,
my soul,
my heart,
my mind,
my all that I am.
Could you, would you
understand, without the darkness,
I cannot give you all that I am?
Ash and Blood
Ash soft upon the brow.
Atonement drifts
On frankincense smoke.
No one ever seeks
To wear the stigmata
Upon hands and feet.
There be no martyrs here.
Confessions worn down
By touching whispers
Of brokenness.
A shattered seeking
Of what heals in ash and blood,
Whispering of saints and sinners.
Wingless prayers spoken for things lost
In a darkness of light.
The wish of a murdered truth
Contained in dusty grey skies
Of wanting and desire
Sought over again–
To now seek and send a trembling
Hand to reach with no strength to grasp–
For a soul too wearied
From the grinding away
Of trying.
Wild and Tame
Originally written in July of 2015. Revised 2020.
My friend, the squirrel, sits at my feet.
I wonder perhaps should I be sitting at his.
He is tame
Unlike me.
I have peanuts for him.
He knows.
He is willing to wait
And teach me
All the lessons he knows
Of a heart
That is wild
Yet tame.
I marvel at all
That is contained
Within his tiny heart.
The joys of peanuts and sunflower seeds,
Being unafraid in the face of strangers,
And making friends so easily,
Of finding a home among things lush and green,
Knowing no fear to leap
Into things unknown.
Will he instruct me
In the ways to live once again
And move on?
Tell me to remove these rings
Linked to a grief buried beneath grey granite?
Can he share with me the lesson
Of what to do with all things circular,
New and old grief– link upon link of chain?
Teach me the ways of letting go?
The ways of living without fears
To staunch the bleeding of wounds
Both new and so very old?
Is this the meaning
Of being wild and tamed?
This In Between – M. A. Morris
I am honored to be featured on https://freeverserevolution.wordpress.com/
It was a time
Long ago, younger days,
When it was all mine
When I just knew the sun rose and set
For me
For her
For love
For gentle colors
Of bleeding horizons.
The things you know
Only in youth
Chafes the heart
In old age.
Memories of when one
Could run,
As only the young can,
In complete nakedness
Between heartache and hope
And hop and back again.
All the wooden slats broke and fell away.
All the rope rotted and frayed.
Now, that bridge lies at the bottom of the abyss
Between heartache and hope
The place of desolation, of death, of living.
And there is nothing but the drifting space of gravity
In this in between.
I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that retirement means. In addition, I have been active in the LGBTQ community since I was four years old and marched my…
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Tears of Fire
Originally posted in August of 2017. However, after driving from Dallas to Houston to take care of some business with having a home built and experiencing nearly deserted roads because of the lock downs and quarantines, I thought I’d touch it up a bit and post it again.
The seven descend.
Each with wings spread
Enough to fill a house.
Shalom not upon their tongues.
Throughout the compass points
They search to find
All the gnawed bones,
The muscles and sinew,
The heart and entrails
Torn with teeth of hate.
And once the seven
Found all the tiny bits,
With flaming swords
Used as needles,
They did try to stitch
All humanity’s bloody bits
Into one thing well knit.
Neither their swords,
Nor spirit of their breath
Did have the power to seal
The meat and sinew to bone.
And then they knew
Those who showed no mercy
Would be given none.
Their heads hung
Inshallah upon their lips
As they ascend.
Their flaming eyes
Weeping tears of fire
As they saw the pale rider
Striding across the land.
The seven knew humanity’s
Avarice and hate
Had broken the fourth seal.
Maa shaa’Allah a whisper of smoke
Within their throats.
Their flaming eyes
Still weeping tears of fire.
Scars of Flame
My scars flames–
The sides of my back,
pock marked brown
drying dark
if not daily oiled in
the red, orange, white
of flames,
trailing once welted scars,
faded, now barely.
if even seen–
Feathered flames
enabling flight,
if I should like,
or if I so prefer,
burning back past paths
behind so I may fly
to places I wish,
keeping promises
to my soul.
My scars flame–
Only I see
and only I know
the power contained
in my flaming scars.
