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.
Wired
In this day and age
We ought to be able to be wired
Wired for anything, everything–
For hope—
–dreams
–love
–desire
Wired for it all and more
Wired for an add on room
In the heart when we’ve run out–
For expansion of sound inside
When we’ve come to love the buzz of silence.
For blood that doesn’t run dry,
Doesn’t clot to clog the works up.
Wired so we always have just one more try
Inside souls always filled
With the romantic dreams of youth.
Wired so there are stairs always to climb.
Wired so no wounds ever cut so deep
Blood runs out, runs dry.
Wired so we can learn
Yet pain be erased.
Wired, just wired,
Plugged in with a soul of shiny copper wire.
What Emily Said….
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. Emily Dickinson
Yep, that’s what Emily said. I beg to differ. If it perched in my soul, The cat ate that damn canary Before it finished its tune. And let me tell you, I never heard anything sweet During a pissed off hurricane. That dang bird knew! Away it flew While the winds whistled Away my roof. I sure as heck didn’t hear Some sweet little bird chirpin’ As I froze my ass off in the northeast. And all I heard as I sweated buckets Under a southern sun was some damn Squawking big ass crow. In fact, I think hope isn’t a bird at all. It might be a well. That might be more apt. Yep, wells aren’t dug or drilled deep enough, Sometimes. And I would imagine Much more can go wrong with a well, Like a pump runnin’ dry. Oh, hell! A well can even be poisoned! But this here well, It’s so dang dry There ain’t even any mud At the bottom. Looks like some cobwebs too. Whatever it had, It done dried right up. So whatever hope is-- A bird, a well, It isn’t always there. It doesn’t stick around, Unless you feed it Before the feathers Drift, Before the water Dries Away.
Once Beyond Earthbound
Long ago, when hopes and dreams Floated on air, drifting like the red balloons Children let go at schools, before we knew The dangers letting go of such balloons drew To the birds and the fish of our world, Before we stopped the letting go of balloons, When we stood watching them, sway with the breeze, the shifting of dreams and hopes on air, when we knew each other, thinking we touched eternity in a drift of air between us, time stood still in the sweet salt taste of the seconds, in the sandalwood smell of the minutes, in the smooth purring sound of the hours in the satin touch of the days— for a moment we drifted with our hopes and dreams braided with eternity beyond the earth bound.
Moon Ate the Dark Challenge: M. A. Morris
I am honored to be featured on Braveandreckless.com as part of The Moon Ate the Dark writing challenge.
The moon ate the darkness
In unsettling chunks
Of destruction and recklessness,
Finding strength in unending night.
An eternal heroic effort to be sure,
A struggle to end the darkness,
The blackest darkness
Of the human heart.
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 Ken doll with all his little Ken accouterments to the big metal trash can in the yard.
You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing
Next time– Get a Dog
You should have gotten yourself a dog. No, really. I mean it. Instead of chasing me Until you caught me. What you thought you’d found, When you found me— And that’s what you wanted me to be— A rescued dog— Full of gratitude and loyalty for the perceived rescue. With no record or memory of previous owners, Ah, an extremely important part. A wagging tail at every word or look from you. Sitting at attention, waiting patiently for you. Desperate for any command you should happen to give. Dutifully complying with each command, each wish You should ever express. No friends, no family, no loves. No needs Other than you and to serve you. That is what you wanted That is what you needed— In your own words— To be my number one at all times. After all, no one would love me better. No one would give me a better home, As you so lovingly liked to remind me. Next time get a dog. She’ll feed your ego better.
Dreaming of You
Image from lostgirlmyths.wikia.com
I dreamed of you the other night.
A dream in color and complete.
We both know I rarely remember dreams.
But this one I awoke from—fresh
With that it felt so real feeling.
Imagine my surprise
when I realized
this dream hadn’t dripped from reality.
We sat, it seemed, at some café
In Dallas or Houston,
Or perhaps, we were strolling
The streets of Provincetown,
Walking across the Golden Gate,
Hiking some trail up a Colorado mountain,
Riding the subway of Manhattan,
Driving the traffic jams of Baltimore or
Los Angeles. Perhaps, we watched the whales
Out on the Pacific or maybe it was the Atlantic.
For in the dream, the background shifted like
A chalk drawing on the pavement in a rainstorm,
The colors bleeding, fading, sliding into one another
The way we used to do.
The place doesn’t matter, in the grand scheme
And all, of any such dream.
You talked away as you always did,
Leaving me no room to breathe
Or even catch enough air to say a word,
Squeezing the freedom from my soul.
Your eyes glowed, shining sapphires with no rain.
Your golden bleached hair blowing wild in dream wind.
Your words twisted, tangled in on themselves,
Doing a contortionist’s dance,
Snaking their way into my ears and on toward
The inner working of my heart and brain,
Slithering under the door to my soul.
Once there, your words tried to bite away,
Injecting some poison into my heart, my brain, my soul
To twist me into saying all the things
You wanted me to say–
All the things your ego needed—
Like that oppressive August afternoon
When you argued nonsense to get me to say
I was to blame and beg to stay.
I never knew a slither of words
Could slide and twirl so many ways
like those ribbons of a gymnast, circling this way and that.
As you saw a snaking pattern wasn’t working so well,
I watched your frustration rise.
Your back straightened even more so.
Your eyes narrow almost microscopically,
Your thin lips disappear completely.
I woke then, laughing.
I think I startled my dog.
I laughed again—
I see Medusa
When I think of you now.
It’s a bloody wonder I, myself, am not stone,
But the well of my hope is another matter.
The Friction of Salt
Image from Shutterstock
Pieces of her broke in the waves,
Searching for wildness
In this place she always went to be alone.
She walked along this shore a thousand times
In the dawn and the dusk
As if they were quantities unknown,
And thus, in them, she could discover some truth,
Some faith, some charity, some hope for herself.
Who knew? It had worked before.
She’d walk toward the town with something—
Some small bit piece replenished.
Besides–
She’d always heard salt was healing,
So she figured she’d rub it in her wounds.
But bloody red and raw
She walks still wounded, broken,
Along the wildness,
Yet not touching it.
Freedom elusive.
She can not find what she lost.
Her wounds chains,
Binding her still
To things she knew illusions.
She waits for the friction of salt
To rub away the chains.
She walks toward the seals in the surf
And on toward the whales in the deep,
Searching for truth or faith or charity
In the wildness of the sea.
The White Ones
I wanted to run among the wild ones.
Live with them among the mountains.
Rub muzzle against muzzle.
Eat sweet grasses.
Enjoy golden warmth upon my back.
Let my soul and spirit rest
Among the trees with the wild ones.
But it was not to be.
My heart could not slow enough
To contain their peace.
And so, I sought the white ones at the sea.
They crashed about restlessly.
Truly wild they were, as they raced continually.
Their cacophonous pacing furious, relentless.
Yes, these wild white stormy ones were in keeping
With my heart, a raging irregular and brutal pace.
The Garden
I gave you all my roses,
The many colors I had.
Cut them all from the bushes.
I knew there would be no more,
And I cut them for you.
The last few dozen blooms
I cut them down for you.
The bushes are dead now.
They will bud no more.
I double, triple checked.
The limbs snap crisply in dryness,
Easily between my weakened hands.
No supple green within.
A single snap finishes each limb.
And so finishes each bush.
I am done, a gardener
With nothing left to tend.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 