A whipped dog, Head down, Eyes, lowered, Ears back, Haunches drawn Dreams the wolf-- Sharp weapons of tooth and claw, Armor of hide and fur, Heart of a free, wild warrior. A dream of the lone wolf, Who may find comfort Here or there For a season. Then moves onward alone Before what will come As the whipped dog knows, Always, always does.
Featured Post: Curious Wine – M.A. Morris
Originally published on Braveandreckless.com
I drink this curious wine
Amidst this dying battle
In the early morning hours
When sleep is a dream
Chased no longer.
A bruised oppressive rawness
Settles over all.
No joy to find
Amidst such wreckage.
I am siege wearied
By a bombardment of words.
Thus, I lay down the sword,
Offer up my neck to you.
And though I should win
The gold and gems,
It is bitter truth to swallow
In this curious wine
You’ve given me to drink.
I begin a day with no respite.
Stones piled
One upon the other,
Weighing on the chest.
I feel the crunch now of bones
Pressed by the tonnage.
Death by stones of grief.
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…
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Featured Post: The Color Purple – M.A. Morris
Originally published on Braveandrclessblog.com
I dug and planted,
Watered and tended,
Replanted and pruned.
I planted what should be.
I checked the labels
At the nursery.
Yet,
Nothing here blooms
That is the color purple.
I have other colors in abundance,
But not the lilacs or the lavender
Will bloom that shade of purple sky
Seen in the sunrise.
Nothing I do
Can make that
Mythic color true.
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
Featured Post: Orlando – M.A. Morris
Originally published on Braveandrecklessblog.com
All is melded together in a tide of fluidity
In the giving and receiving.
Effortless is the trading off of places
And ways of touch.
From the warmth within skin to skin,
There is no question.
Lacking need for definitive definitions,
The passion found in the changing of tides
Is such a joy filled revelation.
In roles not static.
The fluidity found
Wields ecstasy profound.
Image Courtesy of Pinterest
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
Featured Post: The Gravity Between Us – M.A. Morris
originally published on braveandrecklessblog.com
In my final days,
I will soar into the sun
And wait for you.
Or should it be
Find you there
Waiting for me.
Then we will fly beyond,
Mingling and joining
With the elements
Of air
Of earth
Of water
Of fire,
Merging and separating,
And merging again.
For an eternity,
Playing in the gravity
Between us.
Then should we
Fall to earth once again,
No matter where,
No matter the time,
We will find
Each other
Again.
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
Featured Post: Stone Butch Blues – M.A. Morris
Originally published on braveandwrecklessblog.com
(paying for your butch ego)
The fragility of the butch ego
To which we are slave,
Must be soothed by us,
Whispered to and petted,
In private,
As well as public,
So they can strut,
Cock of the walk.
Should their ego be slightly scratched,
A minor scratch that should be paid for by
Lips and tongue and sweet words,
Yet such currency is deemed unacceptable, rejected.
And so we must pay the price.
Have our own selves bound and lashed
By that stone butch cruelty,
Containing not a thing we crave.
Our every flaw memorized, learned by rote,
Recited daily,
As if a lamentation and a prayer
Were needed
To remind us of the
Imperfections of hip and thigh,
Of eye, nose, lips, and face,
Of breast and belly.
And before long, even of mind and soul.
Soon we become,
Not enough.
Our totality,
Added up
And blessed
Within…
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Broken Bits
Pain, A squeezing down Into nothingness, Into blackness, Into broken bits In the chest. Pain, A soreness remains after The squeezing fist Grinds down These shards of glass, The broken bits, This blackness Into nothingness That began long ago. A damage Left of childhood Whimpers. Pain, The squeezing down Of a nightmare And The leaking valve Of this hole In my chest.
Words in the Electronic Ages
What we know of words upon a page Read, learned over again until sated In the richness found. Then turn to the electronic blue haze Where even words resonate, echoing fade. For the sweetest lies, a believer craves. Then scrolling over plastic flowers dancing, The words of a lover’s refrain found Written once too often In wooing others On the same blank cards With pictures of bears. The words like Cheap plated jewelry’s shine Turn black in the bitterness On the day some thought Something pure, pristine was born. Then, finally, is it known the words Of the poetic, the romantic Are but rhetoric and lies Written and said More than once But promised For one. The gravity, the gravity A black hole.
Water
Turn
Breathe warmth
Rest comes easy now
Curled around you—
Poured would be better
Yes—
Become liquid
To be the bath water
Surrounding you
Or the water droplets of a shower
Cascading over you
To possess for a moment
The ability of water
To touch you everywhere at once
SMOKE THE CRAVING
I debate:
Should I buy
That pack of cigarettes?
God knows I want too.
The store clerk
Stares at me
As if I’ve lost my mind.
I nearly answer—
Yes, I have and other things too.
Please, God.
I just want to feel the smoke
Rush through my lungs.
Skimming, skipping, speeding
The way pictures crash the dam of my heart.
I am flooded.
I’d rather be flooded with waves of nicotine.
Yes, it’d be a blessing to drown in nicotine.
Reveling in the stench of smoke
Would help dull this taste of bitterness,
Would dull this craving for a sweetness
I can no longer have.
And why not?
What’s it all matter now?
A slow roll kind of Catholic suicide.
How long could it take?
I mean, really, at this stage?
“Ma’am, can I help you with somethin’ else?”
Says the clerk behind the counter.
I am still standing there,
The crazy lady,
Trying to wring the water out
Of the water bottle I just bought.
“No, thank you,” as I walk away.
So, no slow roll Catholic suicide.
At least, starting not today.
But this patch of bitter taste,
This patch of craving for a sweetness,
Are sewn with double stitched seams
On the underside
Of my skin.
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 