(“Dark Pool of Light Nebula #3”, 2011, original oil)
Excited and inspired
Hurt and in need of healing
Bored and disillusioned
Three sides of a coin
We toss
Again and again
Compulsive gamblers all
Until the game is done
And the ferryman collects
(6/8/26)
Inspired by a lovely lady who's spending one day at a time.
One day at a time is what we have
(All you can do is love and hope)
By Michelle Morris
21/04/2026
She wanted to live
Even though she didn't fear dying
She was worried that without her
The stars in the sky would stop shining
For her family and friends
For her husband, her sweet
Life would be less lovely
Happy memories incomplete
For some people, we're irreplaceable
We're the compass for their world
Without us, they stop spinning
Life is upside down, in a whirl
And the ferryman, he'll come
Even if we pay for him to stall
We're unable to save our loved ones
They have to survive their own falls
One day at a time is what we have
One day at a time is all we can do
Someday may never come for us
Someday may be a wish come true
For when it's your time counting down
When the sands are almost run out
All you can do is love and hope
For your loved ones to never doubt
© Michelle Morris, 2026
It was the golden hour,
When he'd started afoot,
Through the long rows of maize,
Down the dirty red road.
It was when the winds blew south,
And the days were a little longer,
That he lifted his belongings of two,
And followed his broken compass.
It was when the ferryman hit the shore,
And the vendor sold the last of his little dolls,
He hummed the song of farewell,
And let his ragged slippers dig into the soil.
It was when the pyre had just cooled down,
And the lingering scent was still afresh back home,
Did he find his refuge in the homelessness,
When he found a home in all of nature around.
The ocean
Gave a gift to me
A coin for passage
Across the sea
To pay the ferryman
Should I need to cross
To light the lanterns
So I won't
Get lost
For: when my life changed Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann August 13, 2025
*****
a Curtal Sonnet
My life changed when suddenly Mom grew old,
the years had passed I was aware, too soon
the sunny afternoon became the dark
shadow of impending coil's mortal cold
journey underworld to the banks of gloom~
the ferryman will bid you to his barque.
Dont go! I cannot bear to be alone,
precious time has slipped away, left me stark
and naked in the darkess of new moon,
how soon for selfish sins must I atone?
Momma, disembark!
The Departing of The Heart
Salutations for the sound of mind and poverty of heart
Reparations that don’t come through in time to rectify the start
Commiserations for the ones who find it hardest to eventually part
Palpitations of another heart that cannot perceive the concept that it must depart
Military consequences that send the young men out to war
Conciliatory influences of the leaders who target hiring of the poor
Crematory inferences necessary as they knock on heavens door
An Adversary without recompense that helps me get up off the floor
Kindness for the people that are on daily parade
Blindness from the steeple as we play Holy charades
They Find less sympathy for the feeble as they huddle close and afraid
Passing through the eye of a needle as the ferryman gets paid
Interjections from the galley as the defendant begins to cry
Objections in a midnight alley as the amendment causes him to deny
Rejections of the black sheep in a family as without her flock she’ll surely die
Comprehensions of the urgency that communicate in sighs
The End by Elizabeth Moroz
On sleepless nights, down winter's road,
A lonely knight in silence strode.
He raised his drink, a golden hue,
And bellowed deep, as sorrow grew.
A sudden quake—his soul it stirred,
And through the haze, strange voices heard.
He counted souls with trembling hand,
Each one like grains of dying sand.
The night grew cold, the stars grew dim,
No cheer nor warmth remained for him.
But lo! A ferryman appeared—
With staff in hand, four holes it speared.
Aghast, the knight beheld his face,
Time had worn it—left no trace
Of youth or mirth, just aching bones,
A mirror held to silent groans.
And then his glass—now slick with mold,
Slipped from his hand; he felt so old.
“Au revoir,” the stranger sighed,
To charred-eyed knight, whose heart had cried.
Then toward a light from darkened skies,
He went—no fear, no need for guise.
A star, perhaps, or something more,
A beacon to a distant shore.
And thus the tale, now soft and thin:
A knight finds peace from strife within.
For he may rest, his journey done—
A life well lived, a race well run.
ETERNAL QUESTION
We all live in a world full of belief
Yet often with little understanding
And sciences too, deep at its roots
Religious compliance when it suits
Yet with a loyalty to the branding
And for some, can still offer relief
Ready-made answers for unknowns
Especially if there’s to be no analysis
A link to God doesn’t need religion
Yet faith still does require a decision
Some think technology is its nemesis
Like reading prayers on their phones
A supreme being can be a soft option
Even seen as a diamond in the rough
All is then done and dusted in one go
The book may be all one has to know
Alternative explanations always tough
Religions are over time, a concoction
Some claim a special insight or vision
And gaining that special pass to Bliss
Paying the ferryman to cross the Styx
As the Devil is always up to his tricks
Other options might be easy to miss
So hold back on all that easy derision
GHOST, RIVER, SHIVER, MASTICATE, COLD, POMPOUS
The cold wind swirled the mist all along the bank,
The ferryman held onto the boat, whilst the gentleman walked across the narrow plank,
The man looked quite pompous as he chewed upon his pipe,
He was large and looked like a cow masticating on fresh grass, I hope the man doesn’t develop the gripe,
Then as they pulled out into the river,
And the gentleman gave one tremendous shiver,
The ferryman pulled the oars as he rowed across the stream,
But this trip is not exactly as it seems,
The question is, ‘Who paid the ferryman?’ and the gentleman can’t boast,
Because after all he was only a harmless ghost.
With an oar and a long boat
Down river goes the deal maker,
Ferrying another soul afloat
... For I am their taker ...
Black cloak 'round my shoulder
Two coins in my bony hand,
I bring the younger or older
Off to a more distant land
Paddling waters, still and gray
Done a million times or more,
Candle and lantern to light my way
Back and forth to each shore
My fee is due on your funeral day
Not long after a warm body dies,
So your spirit will not have to pay
May someone lay them on your eyes
'Tis no easy, nor grim task ...
For two thin coins of solid gold,
Death wears no ghoulish mask
Draped in peaceful shrouds of olde
Entrust unto me, the so-called reaper
Sent on down here by your maker,
Fear not me ... a gate keeper
This olde ferryman ... the taker.
MY FUTURE SELF
My future days are as a grey thickening mist
I refuse to countenance them and will resist
Life’s mill is slowing now with no more grist
I am told to live for today, whilst it may last
Nor breathe deep on the oxygen of the past
No longer who I was, I will be who I will be
I am, after all, just one of many mere mortals
Even fantasise about stepping through portals
Imagining an amused ferryman as he chortles
I cannot believe in any weird alternate future
With any link to permanence held by a suture
And tomorrow is a barred gate, don’t you see
Some seeking a different prospect to entertain
May, in their mind, hope they are not insane
But perhaps it’s just like a worm in their brain
Yet reality can offer only a very cold shoulder
That is pushed further back as one gets older
Past present and future, we will have all three
Yes indeed, as cheesy as it may sound
my advice is to drop all pretense
of spiritual striving and accomplishment.
Like a child, play,
and ignore what anyone may think or say,
no matter how old you feel.
Your way is yours alone
and thank heaven
it’s not our lot to guide others (being the dutiful ferryman).
Cross the great river however way you can
put it all behind you…and you will find
your wings were always made to soar.
Zenith swirls of black rose petals,
burst into a flock of circling crows,
descending ash and rain on my frozen form.
Viscera and scarlet pools flash,
feet running of a child,
car screeching tires with broken glass.
Piano motif grave into a tilt,
fingers dancing like butterflies,
levees welting over the brim crimson,
down the side of the dam,
Moon alabaster dust suspended,
upside down pyramid spins ever so swiftly,
I wish to go inside this burgundy sepulcher.
Ferryman take the bribe from the crypt keeper,
under the veil of the cloak in black,
piano crescendos with a cello in orchestra.
Now I float amongst the wraiths,
nevermore.
Golden silence here in crepuscule,
wonder if that sun ray in the distance,
is meant for me,
a telephone ring.
Teardrop a shudder in a large mirror reflecting,
zeal cherry blossoms in its grasp.
Lilith is the queen of darkness,
caution tape blueberries and cherries,
a moth that never emerged from larva.
Skulls pile up at the cemetery,
husk buried separate on the moon,
an ethereal tether to the void.
To live a long life is to die alone.
TO WHICH IMAGE SHOULD WE CLING
Is it the hero to whose brave image we should cling
Or the sage, whose deep knowledge impresses us all
Perhaps the bard, whose melodies we hear him sing
But even the ferryman, as we’re heeding our last call
Is it the priest, to whose connections we will cling
Or maybe a seducer, for whose lines one could fall
And the one we love, who to us means everything
As the image of their sole dedication will never pall
Even a joker, who for us much joyfulness can bring
And that inspiring leader, now standing there so tall
To the image of the caregiver who will do anything
Or maybe Humpty Dumpty, now fallen off the wall
The withering is so very beautiful.
Eyes build translucent shells for themselves.
there is a falling inward,
mouths move beneath appearance,
Expressions of mortality
falter,
as the mind begins to see
its own shallow reflections,
an understanding,
that all last breaths are a first kiss.
Atrophy inwardly shapes its own chrysalis.
Old man flowering
in a thin soup of himself,
a seasoned musk shaping iconic effigies,
of youth and age.
He rules the kingdom,
of the winter moon
Crone, touches her wilting lips,
the movement seduces angels.
A papery rose unfolds one more time,
Decline revives her, with yet more
weary wonders.
The withering is so very beautiful.
Light on evening water,
a lake gleams,
too deep to be crossed,
by any ferryman,
Night no longer lures
beauty to turn away from its journey.
Life walks itself,
into a sublime uncertainty.
A beauty arises,
shorn of both fire or hope,
mercy flares upon a crumbling edge.
Revelations burn-on.
At the center of an undefeated love,
a path winds ever inward.
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