Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris

Written for last year’s challenge when I still used my pen name.

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 …

Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris

The Widow Sings

Image courtesy of CanStockPhoto.com
The widow colors the sky

The ground, the trees,
The winds with cold and heat
Of all that cannot be spoken,
Of spirits tethered to stone.

You may never know she is there.
She may wear the red nose.
She may laugh with you.
She may hold out her hands to help.
All so you are not overwhelmed by her presence.

She hides within her weeds.
Sometimes she hides within the willows.
She may smell of pomegranates
Or roses at midnight,
The scents betray her presence.

But you will not see her arms and hands
Covered in thorns and trickling with blood,
The tears of her body, dripping away,
Speaking in tongues no one can understand,
As she stands alone.

She sees history through a broken prism
Of her words never strong enough to bind
Love to prayers weighted with magic enough
To fly straight to God’s ear, to be heard,
To be answered, to raise flowers of miracles.

In the end, the widow is left,
Singing colors of grief.
When all the praise singers have left her
In the muddy soil leavings of wicked tongues,
Gone on to daily lives, the day to day,
The widow stands,
Singing colors of grief,
Covered in thorns.






Frankenstein; The Modern Prometheus – Annette Kalandros

I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com

Brave & Reckless

That is me
I am of my own making.
Rather than ignore, pretend
A pretty sky for my façade—
I chose to make of myself,
A real thing, a living thing,
A patchwork quilt of scars:
Sown together scraps of terror,
Of pain, of suffering,
Of the dark wells into which I fell,
Of the dark wells I clawed and crawled,
bloodied fingered, nails torn off,
Out from the depths,
Of the wealth of human darkness
I have known, of my failures, of my triumphs—
Follow the stitching with your fingers
If you wish to understand
The quilt that I am
Though the batting be made
Of my tears, my blood, my skin,
My scars, bits of my spirit, bits of my soul—
The quilt that I am
Can offer you more
Than any villager can.

Photo by Dhilip Antony on Unsplash


I am a retired teacher, enjoying everything that…

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Down a Dark Hall – M.A. Morris

Reblogged from BraveandRecklessblog.com as Christine Rey revisits her Monster She Wrote Writing Challenge again. I wrote this using my pen name the first time the challenge ran and submitted it.

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 …

Down a Dark Hall – M.A. Morris

Peace, Then I Will Go and Smile

Image courtesy of sciencephoto.com

https://amanpan.com/2021/09/30/eugis-weekly-prompt-peace-sept-30-2021/

Peace, an elusive thing you are,
I have known you in fleeting moments
At best---

Would that I could see the whitest of doves,
Feel the lightest, glancing touch of feathers,
Hold the olive branch for a moment—

Yet, how can I partake of such a luxury when—
     When children’s bellies bloat in hunger
     When those of one religion kill those of another
     When those of one skin hate and kill those of another
     When men rape, beat, kill women
     When children and women are bought and sold
     When humanity seeks dominance over all the earth
           At the cost of future generations?

Yes, I want to see the white dove with the olive branch fly—
To know the world is at peace
To know my daughter lives in that peace
To know all the children of world will grow knowing only good
Then death could take my hand 
And I would willingly go 
In peace.