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
I am honored to be featured on BraveandRecklessblog.com
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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Written when I still used my pen name. I was honored to be featured on Braveandrecklessblog.com
She dressed in black Since the age of twenty-three. She covered all her insides with The blackest sack cloth. She made sure to let in no light. She …
The Woman in Black – 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
I first wrote this a few years ago after reading Elizabeth Bishop’s work once again. Well, after revisiting Mary Oliver and gaining familiarity with Pablo Neruda this summer, I once again returned to Bishop’s work and then had to re-watch Reaching for the Moon. So I decided to dig this one out and tweak it and revise.
In this thing called losing, Bishop said we become masters And that losing isn’t a disaster. No, not a disaster. Losing socks and such stuff. I’ve lost earrings, bracelets, Expensive ones too, didn’t care Beyond maybe a minute or two, And never was it a disaster. And no pain beyond a stab of nostalgia Did I have upon saying goodbye To three houses and two cities, And never did I feel it a disaster. And yes, it was no disaster To bury my mother, A father who really wasn’t, The man who really was, First one brother, then the other, Then lastly, a wife. With each, my body and soul Savaged by a catastrophic hurricane, yes. But no, no disaster. No disaster is it, I’ll admit, For a tiny bit of soul to erode As I buried each. But nothing, nothing did I ever master. Except, maybe this— I did not look for them- Looking to forget them Since they were gone, Emptied of this earth. No, I did not look to forget While driving home In darkness under a full moon Lighted with regret Of a new unfamiliar scent. Yet the swirling of this sad scent Is no, no real disaster. No real disaster is it— That I look to forget A lost return now. A return to life Captured, fleeting, lost-- Filled with a scent Of hope or a fool’s thought— Matters not but now lost. And in this thing Called losing, In which I am well-schooled, As are we all, I have tried to make an art, To make an art of all this loss. Yes, this may be no real disaster, But Bishop lied. There is no art in losing, No art at all, That I can find to master.
Haunting seen In darkening clouds Of chrysalis dreams Where wanting, Where desiring, Haunt seen Cease existing-- In this capturing No ring pierced through Butterfly wings Dripping still From newly emerging Dreams not tended.
Walking through days--- There are too many left And not enough To let me forget. I walk into sunrises Into sunsets-- There are not enough Sunrises or sunsets left In life to let me forget And too many yet to live To live in remembering. I walk to gain forgetfulness. There are not enough miles, Not enough steps, Not enough earth To walk To bring About forgetfulness. I walk, seeking shelter From thunderstorms Yet they remind me. I walk, seeking exhaustion In the mountains Yet they remind me. I walk, seeking the healing of salt From ocean waters Yet they remind me. All speaking In whispers Of the earth’s remembrance. It all reminds me— The brilliant azure sky, The verdant green of forests, The primal roar of oceans, The Rorschach shape of clouds, The roil gray of storms— It all reminds me, Brings me back Nothing allows me to forget.
Who is to say
From where her power came?
Did it flow from her silken curls?
Or her painted red lips?
Her white skin that glows like the fullest of full moons on a cloudless night?
There’s no way to know
From where her power came
To break through stone.
Mornings find comfort here In the coolness of this paradise, A silken oasis found Where thirst and hunger Find satiety Yet thirst and hunger Still into the desire Of evenings Filled with evermore Longing for fire Comforting and raging Always.
I am unsure how this happened, but the stone grew, encasing me, protective and cold, a walking grave of comfort for many years. Now, having grown moss over the passing of so many seasons and used to the weight of stone I carry into the calm of night, blossoms burst forth from this tonnage of comforting cold stone, this grave of a home I have known. I would like to twist, turn away from such blossoms, yet find I cannot. I cannot gather dust to me, creating stone again. Cannot piece shards together for there are not enough left in this remaining dust. As I rest in this place, I will tuck these blooms away-- Until they bear ripened fruit, Readied for picking. Fragrant blossoms that they may only be for now.
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