X the morning out saw several lines lights the runway lights lights Mexico.
I hit the spot.
I marked it with a dot.
It's my spot—
An 'X' ringed.
A bullseye claimed,
filled with jet black ink—
Not a blot with rough edges that seep out,
but one with a sharp outer perimeter.
It's a point pretending it has a yard of space around it,
on its own plot of land, casting no shadows.
I shift a bit; neighbors start crowding in.
"Stop Right There!"
"It's my spot you're on!"
I feel the canvas moving under my spot,
or is it all the jostling moving me — page, plot and all?
Now I'm bouncing in a crowded jumping castle.
Dots blurring into one another.
Stippled footprints mark where spots once stood;
touching down elsewhere — here, there, otherwise.
I've lost the plot; I've lost my spot.
Just another orphaned dot,
set adrift, looking for a margin to belong in.
on a slate, forever being wiped clean.
I clamp down and dig in my heels.
Crampons bite into the ice floe.
Punctuation halts the slide,
puts its foot down—
my comma sheds its tail, and holds.
Smiled down upon are, here.
The one sunny place.
Meanwhile round about, everywhere
All what blurs for grief.
If so willed meant for whom
If not, friend, ourselves!
Self congratulations deplore.
Yet clap them! If brief.
The sun never settles in the dark;
The darkness dissipates one second interval;
Atmospheric change instantaneous;
Start has no place to run;
1 second contingency.;
Lingering spiring shadows;
Have no effect on me;
I am the speck of light;
One ditto, one spark;
Diminishes darkness;
8/28/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2026
The draft-dodgers who fled and even more
Deserters who abandoned their posts
These are the real heroes of war
They’ve paid their personal costs
Their names will never be known
No obelisks will be erected
Their very existence will be forlorn
Otherwise scorned and rejected
They knew they would be slandered
But by saving their own lives,
They gave the answer to their offenders
Let’s flee, despite of being despised
It’s a senseless slaughter for false ideals
Of politicians with high morality
To whom people’s lives aren’t a big deal
Who dream about their own immortality
Let their faithful armchair analysts snap
They never fight wars only talk a lot
Patriotism fits well with a nap
One snore away from the hot spot.
A bad person smiles with polished teeth,
their words smooth stones skipping over dark water.
They lie without trembling,
because the lie has long ago become their skin.
The good man stumbles in falsehood,
his eyes turning toward the floor
as though truth were a wounded bird
crying beneath the boards.
For evil rehearses itself.
It studies mirrors,
learns the shape of kindness,
the proper nod, the measured grief.
But the decent soul—
he is awkward in deception.
His conscience leaves fingerprints
upon every sentence.
Beware the man
who never contradicts himself,
whose stories arrive too clean,
too sharpened, too ready.
The shadow often comes
dressed in confidence.
And goodness—
goodness is usually uncertain,
standing in the doorway
with muddy shoes and honest hands.
Inspired by Criminal Minds: Evolution. Damien and Jade's story. Great show and cast.
X marks the spot
By Michelle Morris
27/05/2026
Step through the door
X marks the spot
Lined up myself with
That red dot
She takes her aim
She makes the shot
Now I'm dead
Nothing to stop
All sins forgotten
All faith restored
My soul needs saving
It's time to soar
She's on the run
Again and again
My only connection
My only friend
She screams into the void
She's terrified but free
There's always a part of her
That will wish she was me
© Michelle Morris, 2026
The sand is made of pulverized clocks,
ticking softly beneath bare feet,
while turquoise waves—liquid amethysts—
unfold in slow, quiet sheets.
The horizon is a zipper, undoing the sky,
releasing emerald birds that fly backward.
A lighthouse stands on one leg, painting the fog
with brushes made of jellyfish foam.
Driftwood sculptures walk toward the tide,
humming tunes that have no name.
Glass bottles drift, filled with tomorrow,
and their corks sealed with twilight.
I sit on a chair built of frozen music,
watching the sunset swallow itself.
The moon, a pale mirror, drops from the deep,
and the ocean, in its immense, surreal sleep,
breathes in—and the beach becomes stars.
.
well
whence
redolence relief
requirez
motionless
mine mullz
mind
gigglez
then persists it's act
luv
two women roam this parking lot
looking for a good place to park
this is their third pass by
they might think I am leaving
I am staying
writing in my car until my friends get here
they might be in the restaurant already
I will go in when I go in
This is my seventeenth poem today
I am aiming for twenty
TRUMP CRIES OUT DAMMED SPOT
BUT HIS CRIES, ALL GO FOR NOUGHT
EPSTEIN JUST TOO HOT
I don't like the spots
But I do like their music.
They play on the face.
(placed 18 Dec 2025)
It’s always there, right by the window, in which I sit everyday for hours, watching cars drive to and fro, kids and parents standing outside waiting to send them off to school.
I take my seat as I sip slowly on my coffee, the house is barely lit, no need for brightness, after all it’s just me. The squirrels outside tuning about, perhaps stocking up on acorns for the long winter cold.
The tv sits off as nothing to watch, only the sound of my air diffuser lights up every color you can imagine, lavender scent fills up the house, calmness scent fills my senses, the sun has risen in the sky, shining brightly on fall leaves in the grass.
My favorite spot in the house, is a big old Rocking chair, gives me a safe place to sit, catch the outside world roll by, families waking by, give their best try in my hopscotch I chalked awhile back, a smile of joy as brief as it was maybe I made their day, but to no avail, I’m still inside my cocoon no longing to go outside.
My book of poems sit upon my bed, my emptiness still lingers in my soul, who knows when I’ll open them back up.
Not a lot of ocelots
are seen in the day
they prefer the evening
or the night
if an ocelot you're hot to spot
altho' it's quite a long shot
an ocelot you want to sight
you may even hit the jackpot
if you do it right
all you've really got to do
is switch off the light
Why can't my blind spot see?
it’s shadowing me in the eye's periphery
edgily creeping sideways like a crab,
watching me, it’s stalking me,
deceiving me with popped eyes
propped up on stilts, curling away when I look.
You live within my every gaze, yet evade my searching blaze.
Why my dear spot do you hide and blind me in so many ways?
Is your evasive spot futile, furtive, or a fugitive in the clear?
Are you black, white, brindle or transparently clear.
Do you suck, poke, protrude, grind
or cut, with a laser sear to blind.
Why can't I see you,
my blind spot hole?
I know you’re there
unseen on the edge!
I’ll shut my eyes now
and hope that you’ll
will be gone when
I awake and stare
to see you clearly there with me,
scene sharing two-eyed
In binocular vision.
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