Washing The Whore
I have drunk the maddening wine of her
whose service enslaves me. And I have slept
in the arms of a harlot I thought was pure,
then tried to wash your feet with the tears wept
in fear of the ax that falls on dead wood.
I have slumbered as if eternity
meant nothing. So now in this interlude
I seek proof that you still listen to me.
Though in a leaky vessel I contain
your love, you grant the time I waste on sin
and purify the water, make it wine
by degrees. I know my grief is your pain.
Waiting for the rise to occur again
is a meal on which we both have to dine.
Closet
This is the not quite silent room where dreams
happen to the still and listening. Where
tired flesh rests and minds seek to be bare.
And the voice of God speaks-- above the screams
of a world gone mad with its own course--
in a whisper. And we inhale his breath
praying to exhale his life, live his death.
Here in the graveyard of our true remorse,
here in the shower where shadows come clean,
righteousness occurs in the heart prostrate,
broken, buffeted by the wind, his mate.
Then the soul delights in a kiss unseen.
In this dark room where the Master knows praise
the chilled hearts of children begin to blaze.
Calliope
Most moments of most days
he drives normally
the machines of mundane mass monotony:
computers and cars on a colorless calliope.
Most minutes he is sane.
But something --
perhaps an odd shape or hue of sky
or chord from radio or tire-strumming road,
maybe the scent of a hidden factory
or the brush of man-made air on his face
or the taste of winter in his coffee --
some undetectable thing
from time to time works its way
into a place within that science cannot measure,
and he pauses.
And he pulls over his mind,
unseen in plain view,
and screams so loud only God can hear.
Candle
I'd lie awake
and watch for a small light
the would peek outside
my mother's door.
Every night
she would light a candle
next to her replica of the Piet?
and the monsters would not come around.
P.C. Jazz
A metal spring on my floppy disk drive
came out of place and forced its tiny door
to close its thin mouth denying my square
tablet admittance. Why it should contrive
to hold my hard work ransom I could not tell.
Nor did I ask. So I cursed the machine,
dismantled it, then held the door open.
But it said, "Abort, Retry, or Cancel?"
More curses came from me. "I'll abort you,"
I said. "Retry this!" preceded a poke
from my sharp finger. But with the stern look
of a dorm mother, it hid from my view
all data and all paths to data. Then,
before despair could strike, I saw my pen.
Serenade
Sleep, then.
I'll soon have nothing more to say--
nothing of importance.
You've heard, read
my "I love you" enough.
You won't forget.
And I suppose I don't need
to hear your laughter
which reminds me of those tangerines
you taught me to love--
sweeter, less messy,
easier to peel than even perfect oranges.
Go ahead, sleep.
Forever, if you must.
You'll like me better.
I won't intrude-- just yet.
I'll even try to keep
from speculating your thoughts.
And you won't have to suffer
with how to say
what you really think
of my poems.
Anytime now,
(I suppose when it's time to be tired)
I'll lay down next to you
and meet you in slumber.
Until then I hope
that my repose will be
sweeter and less messy
and my clothes easier to peel
than when you shed your summer dress
and left me whispering
beside your grave.
Smoldering
You smoke deliberately, with style.
I stumble over reality.
And you, who thought you saw it coming,
grimace behind an uncomfortable smile.
Doctor Jude Sings A Requiem
And it sounds like God is clearing his throat
preparing to cough up the flem that is us.
You hear trumpets too? They are a racket to me.
I heard a voice in the waves one night
that said a storm, that storm, is easy to calm.
And I even saw the form of those sounds
ignore the lightning and defy the thunder
as he danced on the surface
to where my boat rocked like a world gone mad.
And I've smelt the black-red stench of death
as flesh drops and melts around me.
We all reek of gangrene here
in a land bound in the tourniquet of time.
And there are moments
between the contracts and the cursing,
when some old leper
fighting for another gasp of fetid oxygen
claims to see beyond the touchable ceiling
and begs with words lacking reason
before falling into final, humane sleep.
A Pause at the Eye
It's raining still.
Another clich? day to add to the struggle,
more on the doggerel pile
of twenty-four hour periods on my back.
But it is a dark night at four in the morning,
no matter what any armchair philosopher says.
After the latest skirmish in the war of coexistence,
I'm finally alone with my chest pains and cd player,
occasional lightning the only violent word,
a voice that keeps me awake.
So I should be content.
Got my tunes, my books, paper to write on,
and nothing much to do.
I seem to remember a Simon and Garfunkel song about that.
Outside these glass walls the wind scrapes
across treeless, rain beaten streets.
A perfect time, safe in the warm house, for introspection.
But this day seems heavier than most,
and I've nowhere close to set it down.
So I better keep walking.
How to skip class
It's easy.
Just say to yourself:
"They are not gonna talk about anything important
and I'm sure I can handle whatever I miss.
Besides, I am feeling pretty bad today
and I wouldn't want to have to run out of class;
wouldn't wanna cause a scene.
And I've got this assignment in this other class
that I'm sure I ought to spend time on
because I skipped the lecture last week
and now I feel like I'm two weeks behind.
"Skip this class?
I've got so many problems I may have to drop it."
New November Poem
Outside
there is a kaliedoscope of change
in trees, gra
ss, and sky
and people
on the fall-trying-to-be-winter morning.
And for once I'm comfortable
wearing a sweatshirt
seeing sweaters on nice-breasted women
sniffing perfume off the sharp passing air
because I have Everything
that makes comfort.
I'm not afraid of winter,
confident that God
will not let it get too cold.
view from a car seat
she watches trees go backwards
in silence
while papa's quiet is broken
by pop music or a sports report
turning her head
she points drowsy eyes at daddy
who touches her chin
and she smiles weakly
falls asleep and sees
a knight
dressed up like her father
find still
is there any possibility
that i can escape the graffiti heads
and the children of cosmetics
and find still
kisses wet and back rubs
whispers and songs
an untrite way to be sentimental
gina this poem is for you because today
i feel nothing
moments fade alternately
when i sense loss
then anger for letting the feeling
come
dancin'
man, remember when rock
was what we listened to at night while we laughed
at jocks and hot girls at the skating rink
and sometimes we just listened
while thoughts formed
and:dancin' was what we did
to 'get high
forget the pain of living alone/together
run from the fear of dying
and, of course, meet more girls
we worshipped sex/ourselves
david danced before the Lord
with all his might
oh and he had a lot of might
you can't get out of the bottle now
it's such a mighty spirit
there's a voice in the wind
but you're deaf to this rock
time and again david fell
found mercy only to fall again
ooh, but when he danced, charlie,
he danced with all his might
'cause he learned to call God "my strength"
the philistines bit the dust
and david broke out the band
they partied like crazy
you haven't lost your might, charlie,
you've only lost your sight
i remember you and i believe
we're gonna worship together again
and man, are we gonna dance
An idle mind
Take this paunch, for instance,
this brutal thing that came
as a result of the sneaky change
in metabolism.
And that accursed television
a stand for a forgotten trophy)
enticing me away
from the adventures
the library once yielded.
Life's pace, too quick and boring
and comfortable and callous,
I am afraid to change.
Because I remember
a lost idealism
I may scream
or (if she and the kids are asleep) cry a hushed and trembling tear.
Standing in the doorway
I walked into the house
and Mother was throwing books
and books of words
at everyone.
She hollered something
to my father
who was sitting on a motorcycle
and sometimes dismounted
to speak calmly to Mom
who had had enough of calm.
Daddy stumbled to his bike
one last time
and sort of rode away.
He would come back, I was sure,
and he did a few days later,
though I have forgotten why.
My brothers cried much
that day and others.
Especially Bryan because he's so sensitive.
Mama cried too. Perhaps Papa did also
but I don't know.
I just stood in the doorway
and watched.
Each night I wet the bed
and every morning I cried
because I was so cold.
Dallas
Warmed by tea
on Friday morning.
Dallas is awake and moving now
as the radio pours bits of optimism
into this mellow office.
Skylines are great
when seasoned with night and jazz.
But it is morning now
and simpler tunes
accent the sunlit smog
around the huge mortal buildings.
And airplanes take off and land
failing to make it to Heaven
while a child smiles in confidence.
Bio
Michael Neal Morris attended East Texas State University (now Texas A&M in Commerce) where he earned a B.A. in 1985 and an M.A. in 1995. He teaches English at Eastfield College in Mesquite. He has published a number of stories both online and in print. He has worked as a secretary, technical writer, janitor, and tutor. He lives with his wife and children just outside the Dallas area.
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