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	Morgan
	PROFILE About me Friends (1) Poetry (18)

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Morgan, 16 august 2014

Burial At Sea

Into the purple sea, feet first
along the whales back
stuck with barnacles and whorled worms
slips the man from the boat
who used to be a priest, then a rabbi,
buttoning his mackintosh.

ker-splash!

The whale glides off, laughing and spouting
the boat drifts off, the sun goes off.
the atolls drift and shift. The sky popsickles green.
'Isn't it lovely', sputters the man
(who has lost his stove pipe) emerging
back into air. 'Isn't it lovely'?

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Morgan, 16 august 2014

When

When I sweat the big sweat
shudder, die and descend
to the Stygian shore
(which may look a lot like the Hudson,
only darker sliding)
I will quickly locate the ferry gate
and, after only a little wait
offer its famous boatman a poem
swearing it my only fare.

Then, I bet, he'll sniff 'what's this for'?
(having known every past form of coercion)
shake it out briefly, and moving his lips
begin to read, leaning on his oar.

I further expect, as he reads, to see brightening
his tired eyes, and a smile
lighten his dour face;
that, finishing the now-damp poem,
he'll look me appraisingly up and down,
sigh, tip cap and say:

'All aboard, sir, there's a seat for you here--
Estimable shade, your table is waiting,
people are expecting you there,
on the other side.
No one said you'd be coming today--
How's the weather up there, anyway?
I do sincerely hope you'll enjoy your stay
with us, here, and find everything here to your liking'.

number of comments: 0 | rating: 2 | detail

Morgan, 16 august 2014

Mood

Lovely new good mood
you visit me like a floppy cloud
filled with warm rain

blown to land's end
and half-way back:
tumulus of cumulus, off lit.

Squarish in my mind you sit
unpeeled like an orange:
gold suffusing blue,

vanishing, twinkling into view
like a chunk of dry ice
subliming by your own rules.

New and presently blue
you leap for the sun like Pegasus
yet bit by bit, you too,

will go, that I know is true,
for no one can hold you
when your cords undo,

and off you'll go like a helium balloon
to the moon, to whom your elated
to be distantly related.

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Morgan, 16 august 2014

Song

The way your gaze
runs 'round the room
and lights on me
and not by accident
I dare assume

Makes my heart
pick up its pace,
skip and...why
it might be said
to even race.

In my bad ear
a crackle of static
makes me wonder
whether something's up
in this old attic

And makes me for
the moment sure
I have not lingered
far too long
at this here fair;

So that in spite
of ruin and wrack
I can't be blamed
if I reflect
and send it back.

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Morgan, 16 august 2014

Obit For A French Restaurant

Florent, Florent
that it should pass
your manic grin
helas, helas
Florent, Florent
then so now, now so then
Florent--
To a boy from Astoria
A pretty good restaurant:
Florent,
Sic transit gloria.

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Morgan, 29 august 2016

Cherries

In their blue-black coats,
a sun-splash for an epaulet
they're tasty this year
extra glossy and fat
God alone knows why--
some years are just like that.

Coming home from Costco,
one by one, we toss them back
(they're irresistible)
spitting the pits
(they fall in the cracks)
we mean to be trees
but doubt ever will:
longer mornings needed
we agree for that;
deeper soil to root-search in
than any here in the 'hood;
higher sky,
a particular slant of rain
and the kinship of their kind.

Anyhow, we can't resist.
And, coming home
fish them out faster,
by the two's and three's, now
from their plastic boats;
faster and faster
pop off the stems
and toss them back like years,
buffing them first on our shirts.

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Morgan, 30 august 2016

Fruhling

Now is the time to come--
and the tree, swept clean
of purple, hosed
into the gutter, like after-the-wedding
confetti, stands merely green.

But, what green!
Overnight, the busy painter, not loath,
(for Nature abhoreth a vacuum)
tints each leaf with
gold betokening growth.

We tilt back brims--
to an ancient song
coin novel words;
marvel how the times, again,
return and returning, move along.

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Morgan, 24 january 2020

On Helicon

In the golden light of morning
mists, morphing slowly to women, numb'ring nine
in chorus, they sang to Hesiod, the shepherd,
'We know how to tell lies that ring true,
but we can tell the truth when we've a mind'.
'Oh, fine, replied Hesod, yawning--
you and the media'.

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Morgan, 2 july 2021

Haiku

On a certain day
we caught many crows
but their cries all flew away.

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Morgan, 2 july 2021

Seige

Reading on--
'I can't believe it', cried old Vallette, in toney Italian. 'The nerve!'
His secretary's quip was plainer. He adored the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Een-cred-DEE-bee--lay! Can she think of no interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Thanks for nothing!'
And so on.
'Oliver, she's your sovereign', old Vallette reminded him.
Oliver said nothing. True her didn't like bad-mouthing his queen.
Say nought, regret nought. But he wanted his sympathies clear.
Through the corbelled windows, towards the ruins of St Elmo across the harbor, old Vallette studied the crumbled western rampart, the stone-filled moat, the figures of the engineers atop the wall. Like ants.
He recalled the battle--those long, hot, awful, bloody days--
days he would like to forget but couldn't. He thought of the men--how bravely they fought, how horribly they died.
He viewed the yellow fronts of the palaces--graceful outcroppings of limestone cliffs they sprang from--
both turned fiery gold in the low sun,
the in-between stretch of dozing water a pool for descending angels to bathe in.
It bent back the sun's rays.
Magnifico!
'As it always would be', thought old Vallette. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed!
But he didn't say that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window, he swore in Italian.
It must have sounded gracious to Oliver's ears.
Without doubt, English was the language of profanity.
On the marquinia table, inlaid with pink and orange stone
he tossed the missive bearing the English queen's seal.
'Thanks, thanks, thanks, much-indebted--thanks for...
thanks, thanks, etc.'
'Of course', said old Vallette. 'Don't mention it.'
The envoys who brought it couldn't read but in the hall below
were feasting on plaice and drinking Sicilian wine.
Outside, the sea bristled with ships, sailing placidly
to Genoa, Marseille, faraway Valencia,
bearing spices and wheat from the Levant and slaves to London.
'Good riddance. And the language--barbaric!'
There was lots to do. Old horrors fade before fresh triumphs.
Across the harbor the city was rising fast.
He, himself, laid the first stone. Would he live to see it done?
He doubted it. Not the way he felt. But God willing, he would.
The mantel clock chimed six. Along the peninsula
in each little belfrey, swung a bell on its rung. Soon
there was a chorus. It lasted a whole minute, then ceased.
Old Vallette liked the bell sound.
He would have a little dinner then go to bed.
'And Oliver...'
'Yes, sir?'
'Go to bed.'

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Other poems: Moth To Flame, Our Love., Seige, Haiku, On Helicon, Stress, Haiku 2, Haiku, Probability, Herbst (Autumn), Fruhling, Dog Day, Cherries, Burial At Sea, Mood, Obit For A French Restaurant, When, Song,

Latest items:

Poetry

Burial At Sea

When

Mood

Song

Obit For A French Restaurant

Cherries

Fruhling

On Helicon

Haiku

Seige

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