As if I'll whiff a sack of onions fried
brown from years of cigarette smoke,
a stolon-shaped cobweb dangles from a ceiling.
A woman's double hello and smile upend
bookends of a full-blown dream.
A bank and a doughnut shop seem
to arrive as she'll pass them from around a bend.
A spider plant below eye level,
a flashlight floats past
a dormant light switch.
A few return each day
to make me fret
on what I can't forget
is done with, done.
No way back
to make amends
to right the wrongs
to warp the truth
to upend the trends
to reshape the bends
to better the ends.
Swapping heads for tails
starting again
in vain,
in disdain.
Yet still they circle
sly as a fly,
tides that tease,
tug away.
They try
to ask why,
why not,
what might have been,
what could have been—
perhaps,
besides,
the other guise,
to disguise
or deny.
Reality's demise
In the hush of night
It wears my face
Then slips away—
out of place,
out of grace.
Still I wait.
Feels delight when a mouse comes out.
He knows what this squeaking sound is about.
You wouldn’t think this squishy little guy-
Would have a taste for meat in his eye.
A hunger for crunching bones.
For which he never atones.
So when this mouse burrows away.
There’s nothing to keep the caterpillar at bay.
So he sits outside the burrow.
As his teeth start to unfurl.
His antennae turn sharp as can be.
He’s quite strong you see.
But when the mouse doesn’t come out-
He starts to pout.
Because the mouse just let himself starve underground.
With nothing to eat around.
Maybe that’s better than an insect fate.
Which anyone would hate.
But caterpillars are small as can be.
Can crawl underground you see.
And hey, this burrow is quite wide!
The mouse carved it when he was plump inside.
But when the caterpillar reached the end.
There was a nothing to upend.
The mouse was nothing but bones and tendons now.
So the caterpillar almost took a bow.
But hey, who says a squishy guy like me can’t chew through bone?
Why would I complain and moan.
When my teeth get longer and stronger with hunger and pride.
Chomp through bone, let’s see what’s inside!
Sleeping now is not so easy
Unlike nights of yesteryear
Pain evasive sleep maneuvers
Needed now from front to rear
This way to avoid that shoulder
That way to appease my back
Crosswise so my groin finds freedom
Tilted slightly toward the crack
That Sciatica will flare up
Should I not upend my knee
That’s just one side’s ‘Sleeping Sitcom”
What is to become of me
Don’t forget to fluff that pillow
Sinus drip means counting sheep
Plus a stiff neck’s sure to follow
One wrong doze into the deep
Slumber now is very tricky
That’s if I can sleep at all
Where’d I hide those ‘little helpers”
Sandman’s on an early call!
"It's all going to be okay" he would say,
with no scent of doubt in his breath,
even as its aroma reeked from mine,
as I'd blurt out "how can you be so sure?"
I never figured out what made my dad so positive in life,
though I'm positively sure his life wasn't free from trial
and the upsetting detours that can uproot our foundations
and upend the tables of tradition we depended on.
On and on life goes like this,
until it ends.
I wonder
What traditions did my father depend on
and, lay to rest,
for something, better?
What pressures pressed him so thin
that he'd give up those things
he once loved so dearly?
Is that what transformed him
into the appreciative, hopeful, happy guy
we laid to rest?
Imagination only comes when you privilege the subconscious,
when you make delay and procrastination work for you.
—Hilary Mantel
The cogs and wheels turning, nonetheless, as I ponder
the preparation before me, having looked over the lesson;
turned over the less obvious loneliness of being left
with a lesson I’ll never forget; abandoned, but not by God.
—quote by Poet
Procrastinating
Cold am I in my pyjamas;
not wearing any socks.
Shivering with coffee in hand;
it’s warmed up to the cold.
Frozen, the morning program;
I will likely release its heat.
Procrastinating, except for laundry.
Waiting on my inspiration socks.
Shall I pick up my next read
or throw the book at something unseen?
Pens and pencils in an Irish mug.
Two leprechauns kiss; Dad misses that warmth.
Observant am I, as now I see, scattered,
yellow and pink silicone muffins.
My mess in triplicate.
I must duplicate my stress.
Press in to the obvious…
Once I begin, where will it end?
Work, without end,
to upend my mind.
"Hoping all your consequences are happy ones."
Bob Barker on Truth or Consequences
Mediacraft attacks could conclude
if words split wrong from right.
Grace and mercy would grant latitude
but truth would upend the fight.
Worthy upshot holds much in store
yet, integrity is worth much more
Worthy upshot
worthy upshot
would find mediacrats ending word wars
for lying is moral turpitude, depravity, sin.
But who finds truth absolute anymore?
It is you I am seeking for frost,
the icy balance to my flame;
Flow flickers into wildfire,
anchoring you to me;
Waltz of opposites,
full flattery
will upend
any
girl.
The day after Valentine's Day,
for most may be sublime,
as a day achieved a measure
of some success, while
others gave it no light of
day most likely from
lacking a partner and
therefore gave it the
right of way so as not to
upend somebody's
prospects.
They would make some
sort of remedy to either
fill the void, or most
respectfully, start out
afresh and find somebody
special that'll be the
impetus for next year's
scheduled soiree.
Yet there is that one
element that would
toss the monkeywrench
into the woodwork, one
that seldom heard in
open conversation,
and that would be,
infidelity.
So Valentine's Day,
seems also to be in
reserve for even
those who do not
deliver flowers
with the unsigned
card at the front
of the door.
Approach of Wind, it chills
in a particular way.
Unexplainable, how it carries in competing tandem,
of unknown elements brought into the arena, bare.
Doctor's bag opened of winds,
surgical biopsy underway,
in new mandated trailways.
Membraned channels of envelope streams
holds aloft vapors of vial serums,
like a bassinet with black wings.
Intheorium sends it's postage.
It soothes the Cesarean Earth in her pangs,
for mankind's evil is great. How can it stand to be.
So he sends them a strong delusion
so that they may believe a lie.
Armies shall pillage the Family and
upend the carts in the Marketplace.
Souls shall be scattered to the four winds, looking desperately for a compass
that can find the head.
Delivery, once slow, has increased exponentially.
Magma rivers will haunt the landsape like lions,
Nemian.
Great forges looking for gold to smelt into idols of Pompeii.
For he shall stand in his Pomp in the Temple,
then sit, as if he is God.
When pressed to take sides
to 'answer the question'
To choose is to cause to divide ...
The solution, of course
to no one upend
is to answer, 'I don't know
~ it depends'
that carves out a space of measured boundaries
that's given shape by force of will
that makes one smaller in walled existence
to think outside the box
to forge a different understanding
to upend expectations
to act on words that burn with fire
trail blazers
like seniors lapsing marathons
what's blocking the exit?
a box of familiarity that isn't freedom
when shadows stand in for substance
a lethargy of vision
where no fresh colors flash their sheen
what can be wrenched apart?
the box that traps us in seclusion
to re-imagine music
to elevate like choosing
Poem written April 30, 2023
Pets come in all shapes and sizes. This poem is in awe of those fluffy, irresistible, cuteness overload pets that take over our lives and our hearts.
Fuse memories to your soul
By Michelle Morris
20/12/2022
These furry beasts
These ferocious furballs of love
They can maul you with cuddles
They can upend you with hugs
Such irresistible cuteness
Such an overload of fluff
You cannot resist the onslaught
They'll keep you away from work
They can trip you up
And make you fall
They'll bring you to tears
And become your whole world
For nothing can compare
To that fluffy, adorable face
When it snuggles up beside you
Or wakes you for food or space
They'll take up the whole bed
They'll take up your whole heart
They'll take over your life
They'll give you joy beyond the stars
Our pets define us
They are part of your life and home
They bring you joy and laughter
They'll fuse memories to your soul
© Michelle Morris, 2022
Calibrated thoughts, require a stress test
Nous finely balanced, seems level headed
Evenly spaced, til our needle’s threaded
Suggestion feels good, but hard to digest
Fabric lacked substance, loosely it divests
Too good to be true, lies come embedded
Calibrated thoughts
Pattern emerges, brainwashed by request
Repetitious doctrine, substance shredded
Scales upend, exactly what they dreaded
The crap never stops, leaving us depressed
Calibrated thoughts
Rousing Rondine Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jeff Kyser
How many syllables 12x10
10/14/22
I would hallucinate instead of slumber.
Because this tiredness is churning in me, more than I remember.
I am entering a sleepless cycle.
Each night turns more fickle.
I tried to wait for the crisis to end.
Each day I would have to sacrifice a piece of hope so that the world would not upend.
It is like I am creating new problems that I am unable to control.
To survive, I must be an ever changing soul.
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