Age can’t carry its carriage when,
No more gets born new courage then.
Age ponders penning a page when,
Life gets peeved of post-passage then.
New dares are hard to engage in
When, past quests get sung in rage then.
Mundane move ways of marriage when,
No room, new romance to stage then.
Tired, living long life of rage when,
The old man turns unto sage then.
__________________________
Ghazal | 10.09.2025 | carriage, courage, marriage, rage, sage, stage
Scared in love
A closed book
Waiting to indulge
I'm a blank page,
that's been bleached,
and seen in ages
and here or feared.
I'm not anyone
a something,
just I hope to begin,
I hate society's fun,
Its not entertaining.....
Its not anything,
drawn to curtains
Where to begin
better to be withering
bugs set in your ears
That one with the clippers
and silent dreams whispering
a match to that crawling
of young curious drawing
The hair that's being trimmed
and dizzy able to be stunning
Like a lightning of such feet
and the healthy of farms' wheats
less stateliness now running
Ideas for a poem, a dime a dozen
Adventure, Faith, Growth, 'mad Russians'
Examples of meter and foot available anywhere
More ‘types of poems’ than anyone’s aware
All sorts of schools and sites to help one begin
No shortage of ‘experts’ eager to weigh in…
So why is it every evening for me starts the same
that blank page mocking ~ You've only yourself to blame
The sheet is blank, and so's the mind
It's hard to think it so unkind
That friend that's been with you so long
Declining now to come along
It was not always thus, and so
At times so willingly to go
It led some place you'd rather not
Wondering just how you got
From here to there and back again
But still you treat it like a friend
Sometimes one that's led astray
Sometimes the one you hope will stay
For friends are dear, we know that now
Another hand upon the plow
Another shoulder in the trace
Which pulls its weight in that hard place
Aligns us there within the race
Drops us right into that place
Where furrowed brow relaxes now
And finds the rest none can efface
Turn the page, my love
By Michelle Morris
26/07/2025
Turn the page, my love
Turn the page
It's time to change your story
It's time for a new space
You can pick the main theme
You can choose the main characters
You hold the power in your hands
You hold the magic in your soul
You were not meant to stay the same
You were not meant to remain caged
You are wild and magnificent and free
You can fly with those gorgeous wings
Anything is possible
Your path, your journey, your dreams
Anything is possible
Your hopes, your desires, your beliefs
Remain inspired by your spark
That light within your soul
Remain focused on your growth
Believe in your worth and wholeness
So, turn the page, my love
Turn the page
It's time to change your story
It's time for a new life
Turn the page, my love
Turn the page
Write the chapters you imagine
Make it happen, make it real
© Michelle Morris, 2025
BLANK PAGE
a blank page whispers,
ink spills like a timid stream—
where have the words gone?
I can't bring myself
to read the front page news
with which they string us along
as portrayed by the views
of those with a vested interest
or the rest with an axe to grind
who must think we're all
just deaf dumb and blind
to the truth of which there's more
in the speech balloons
of the funny characters
in the Sunday cartoons
it's all a waste of paper
other than those comic strips
and really only good
for wrapping fish and chips
The story of my journey has many pages.
I open to a one that is yellowed, old,
crumbling. Oh, that park at the end of our street,
where I would sit on a bench with father.
We were still, lost in the hues of green,
and blue of the river flowing by.
He loved her
like the last day of autumn —
knowing she'd leave,
but holding on
as if his hands could change the season.
She wasn’t just a chapter —
she was the entire book
he never finished,
because he kept rereading
the parts where she smiled.
He built a world around her absence,
talked to her like she still listened
in the silence of 3 a.m. walls,
replied to old messages
just to feel alive in the ruins.
But to her,
he was a moment —
a page she turned
without reading twice,
a sentence that never made her pause.
He broke quietly,
in places she never looked.
While she moved on,
light-footed,
as if his love was never heavy enough to hold her.
He was waiting
in the story she left behind.
And she —
she never looked back
to see if it ended.
(with the understanding
that these words
do not appear in this
blank space, what
remains is what this is,
and what we are
and not even~~~)
Today I’m grateful that to be on the same page as Elliot Page
and wish more people could see the world through his/their eyes…
“Everyone deserves to feel love” he/they says
“Equally
without shame
and without compromise”
Unwritten page
An unwritten page on a Word processor, I ought to leave it this way
look and dream of what I could have written on the page
If I delete words I have written, the page will be blank again
No history, a crumbled-up sheet of paper for the waste basket
For now, it is too late, but when coming to the end of the sheet
My wife was in Johannesburg for surgery. Born in Congo, she is
Light-skinned, but traveling on a Portuguese passport, she
Boarded a bus for the blacks, great consternation, the police
To go on the bus for the white people
Racism and ignorance, now it is the Muslims who feel the
Ignorance, we want them to be like us, not insist on doing
Their own things
Israel is a racist country, a thistle under the saddle of
And an Arab stallion, and can’t last the way it is ruled
The sheet is fouled by an opinion no one wants to hear
What now, erase the page and write about the moon
Do to others as you seek,
Let kindness shine, make prayers unique.
Even when they mock and scorn,
Still bless them from dusk to dawn.
For God, in love so deep and true,
Held us close when we withdrew.
The Word made flesh drew near to stay,
Though we had wandered far away.
Upon that Cross, in the darkest night,
He interceded for us at Mercy’s seat.
The One who sent the floods before,
Now guides us through the Shepherd’s door.
He who gives good gifts with grace,
Says, ‘I won’t forget your face.’
Though kith and kin may turn aside,
Your name is in His palm inscribed.
The Author of our every page,
Writes ‘Redeemed’ through each new stage.
Once lost, now found - His Blood restores,
A life of victory forevermore!
Everyone reads what I write,
Except the one it’s meant for.
She never do.
She never will.
And I ask myself,
Do these words mean anything,
Or are they just a lullaby
For a heart that forgot how to sleep?
Maybe I write to lie,
To pretend silence was a choice,
Not a sentence carved into me.
I stitched my mouth shut
With thread made of shame,
The same shame they threw at me
Just for existing,
Just for breathing wrong.
Now only the page listens.
It takes my guilt like it’s used to it,
Lets my ache spill and settle
Like smoke in a locked room,
And when I write,
I’m dragging up the ghost
Just to bury it again, deeper,
Like maybe this time
It’ll stay down.
This isn’t poetry.
It’s a body laid open.
Every reader,
A witness to the cut,
To the blood,
To the wound that never closed,
Except for the one
Who was supposed to see it.
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