Plies Poems

Go out into Nature every day

Inspired by Stillness. Enjoy being in Nature. Commune with God and His Angels. Be at One with your Higher Self.

Go out into Nature every day 
By Michelle Morris 
18/05/2025

Lying in the grass
Surrounded by tiny daisies 
I feel like I'm part of this spell
Here where Nature plies Her Magic

Here where the soil is cool
And the grass is verdant
Bees are humming 
And birds are cheerful 

Every single atom and creation 
In this magnificent life force around me moves
And expands into its own Timeline 
By being still and allowing Grace 

The Magic beckons us to Believe 
In Fairies and Magical Beings
In God's Universe infinitely spectacular 
In Knowing we are part of the Mystery 

So, commune with God and His Angels 
Be at One with your Higher Self 
Let that Stillness inspire your Soul
Allow your Healing Journey to be deeply felt

Go out into Nature every day 
Be bathed and protected by Her bountiful arms
Notice the blooms and the wildlife 
Know you're exactly where you belong 

© Michelle Morris, 2025

Aurora Sky

Inside penumbra light holding hands fairies dance
Silhouetted to the backdrop of an evening sky  
Viridescent trees softly whisper
Vacuously standing side by side   
In those shrouded places where fairies take a stand. 
Wings of power wings of light hear their magic song 
If you wanna fly with me 
If you wanna ride with me 
Believe in your own wings and remember to be strong 
Trust yourself, when your searching for that hidden door  
Dance until the moon sighs 
Dance until the moon plies 
Inside the penumbra light the fairies dance and dance 
Silhouetted against the greenish glow of an Aurora sky.

Truisms

There are words
sermonizing unto others
yet silence can tell no lies

Outside some unknown soul taps
at the Window
The wind swirls
at a given time
Mother nature is perplexed


The corridor will led us to a cul de sac
where the silence 
plies its own truth
where shadows darken, 
merging with the night

My Truths

*
                        The truth is not always beautiful 
            or beautiful words from sugared lips, the truth.
The Trojan Horse delivered to the door, comes in disguise.
Sturdy in design of wood, but empty as a trickster
                        who plies her trade amongst unwary
and the inevitable susceptible naïveté akin to the Greeks’ quaint
love for the common old garden grasshopper of all colours —
      a Greek tragedy in the making, rivalling that of Sophocles.
            My truths are more complicated than the above:
                        an exposé wrapped in the variable 
old clichés of devotion and eternal love of the other.
            Keeping the secrets of others is a burden to be 
      suffered in silence until a beautiful
                        death do us part – then rendezvous in eternity.

At The Pier

Contemplative bliss communes with the serene,
into the spirit of the placid marine crystalized in my mind.
As the sun’s reflection spreads glitter upon its open sea,
throngs milling to the melodious tunes of the guitar.
Strumming troubadour, slim and rangy toe headed youth
grins modestly as his tip jar fills welcoming spared bills
And to the sounds of the seagulls
gleeful squawk, soaring through the azure.
Beyond the pier the magician plies his trade, 	
tricks which awe and stun
the enthusiastic crowds gathered about. 
And what lovely crowds willing, mellifluous, madrigal, 
thoughtful, kind, and respectful.
Smiles abound as though the world conspires for a pleasant mood.
I inhale the familiar primordial sea air’s briny scent. 
I take pause to ponder gazing out onto the vast ocean’s expanse.
How much longer can I bare this aching fulfillment 
as I anxiously transpose these images and feelings
into meriting words.

Primadonna

She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine

She wore a pair of dirty ballet shoes
Practised plies down the stairs
Played the prima ballerina
With her ill judged airs

She caught a plane to Greenland
Because she though it nice
To drink her sloe gin
With fresh frozen ice

The very very last time that I saw her
She was doing long handstands
Riding naked on a surfboard
Off of Van Diemens land

I thoroughly cleaned and aired my house 
Changed every lock on every door
Hoped she got the right message
Don’t come round any more

Sometimes I thought I might miss her
Bur then I quickly shook my head
Switched on the television
To watch a soap instead

She spilled porridge down her tutu
As she drank her mug of wine
Sank it in just three swallows
And then she wanted mine

The British Seashore

On the cliff at the Worm’s Head 
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge

In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance 
Great nets of shells are hauled up 
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver

Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water

In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves

And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe 
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.

Pondering Life's Parade of Dreams

As fuchsia clouds caress a saffron sky,
   like pastel pillows in the eventide
and bid this weary winter day goodbye,
   I sit alone and ponder dreams applied,
      and ask myself if always best I tried.

The dreams in life which slowly drift on by,
   like fashioned floats parading ‘fore our eyes
and calling us to grab them from the sky, 
   are reaching out and tempting with their plies
      to jump aboard their float and claim our prize.

For me the dreams which loudest called my name,
   the ones to which I gladly answered call
to join parade of dreams and claim my fame,
   have shaped my life and left me standing tall
      when all of life seemed backed against a wall.

But sometimes I still think of dreams gone by,
   the ones to which I turned my back and passed;
can’t help but wonder with an aging sigh
   just how my journey might have been recast
      if had I chosen different dreams amassed.

Yet as I ponder with each passing day
   and think of all the dreams in which I played,
I know for certain one thing I must say
   there’s nothing I would change in judgements made
      as aging sun now sets on my parade.


August 25, 2023

Rapture

I have seen yet another miracle under the sun,
An eastern girl.
A firefly that has brought light to my pitiable living....
Poetry like music is just another description of art a painter never had the words to say out loud,
But in my case this is what happens when charisma plies against literature.....
What if I told you my wrist is part of the arms that planted the Boughs of the forbidden fruit?
And in my reveries,I write lustful poems like it's an addiction,
Sin after sin.
Or perhaps I write of love knowing I shall only taste it on stanzas and metaphors?
It's this type of poems that feel like they were written for me....
But today I'm a lucky man,
For there's a lass I wish to say my love to, love of it's purest form,
Stand on mount Everest and shout her name for millennials like I'm on salary to do so,
I'm not much of affectionate behavior 
But for simplicities sake....let me just say
I want go on lavender candle dinners,hitch eyes until she's comfortable enough to talk about her insecurities,
And if I was to die before her
Bring me kwachas and ngwes...for I will need bus fare to find my way back to her, only rapture will do us apart.

The Power of Me

By Lori Steindorf Copyright July 22, 2021

One promises this
Another promises that
One plies me with his culinary flair
Tells me I'm fat and hates my hair.

Tired of trying to earn my M-R-S degree
When all this time I should have been
focusing on me
If it's gonna be, it's up to me

One wants to buy me drinks, dinner and take me fishing
Seems he left his wallet in the truck outside to never return
Something he should've mentioned 
 I was already prepared to do dishes after he lured me in.

You see why it's crucial I rely on me. Too many lonely nights and unfulfilled wishes mar one's spirit. Glad the world's big enough so I never have to meet them anew. What's a frustrated lass to do?

It's not to say there aren't honorable, decent, evolved men out there. I'm tired of struggling to find him. To be candid, I'm through.

Self-discovery is my life's work after a burnt-out strand of self-absorbed men. Where's that condo you say you have? Go live there already! No, you can't roost on my couch. Here's a little beer money. Climb behind the wheel of your clunker and be gone.

Poetry Is More Than Words Can Say

I hear grand piano music floating in from afar
It is poetry so crisp, It's crystal clear

Poetry is chandeliers on high ceiling of white
It is polished parquet in spaces with soft light

Poetry is grand plies performed with perfect poise
Like choreographed parts you'll enjoy

Poetry is rainbow-arched windows, wide as love for you
Such language conveys heart's pulsation, soft as dew

But there's more!
Poetry is precious sound of deep unending peace
It tugs at our heartstring, new heights of joy we reach

Poetry awakens my soul to the good in you
Though caution comes in, love isn't the blues

Poetry is slow caress of each and every word
Like perfect pastels of my smiles, haven't you heard?

Poetry is alive like our rhythm without blues
It is vibrant, yet so profoundly smooth

Poetry is sun and moon in fullness of soft glow
Such friend favors everyone, wishing to grow

Poetry is starlight of joy in your eyes I see
It is spark I adore, when you're with me

Poetry is our stream of dreams flowing endlessly
It goes where divine might mingles with light, you'll see

Poetry is you and I in our silent orbs
Inspiring song, dance, and serenity.

*

Nature's Creature

The bee staggers,
There are no drawn daggers,
It had had its fill,
All is at its will,
It flutters its wings,
Its song, it sings,
Up it flies,
Another path it plies
There’s a mission to accomplish,
There’s beauty for us to relish.




May 30, 2022.

The Dancer

You numb my eyes
From tippity-top
To eight count plies
Rhythmic grooves 
Crossing hard waxed floors
Bouncing orange orbs denied	
Double bass pounding, pounding
In my ears
Heart
Pride
Moving like soft water
Untethered sass
Yesterday’s child
Today a Dancer
Numbing eyes

Uncertainly Placed

This land is played out on a plain bible.
Nightlights smear a frigid fog, the fumes of idling cars.

A flat-lined wind plies its wheezy bellows through burrowing bones,
smothers the distance, douses the glint of rural glimmers.

Knuckled chills know how to fang a wrist,
nip tender tongues, freeze the rivers run.

Here in the burbs the lights of bistros cannot withstand
their own desolate backyards. A scree heap of black curb
is not crossed by the lightly shod but must be booted-in and leveled.

At such times, winter lends a shivering hand
at its own burial. We become priests all frocked in fleece,
heads bowed or we howl a tune to a faceless moon.

Good or gone to the bad, we are there, in Ohio, anywhere.

The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities

The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker

I love walking 
the rutted roads 
Running in 
hidden groves 
Through  
      the residential jungles

the rambling 
backyard boulevards 
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel 

A straight line between 
Picket fenced fortresses of 
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by 
dumpster divers

I love listening 
		To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of 
wildland 
Overruled by skulks of city foxes 

I love trekking 
	The pioneered turnpikes 
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between 
the telephone lines 
mapped by

XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities 

I love the 
	Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be 
Needed anymore 
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters

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