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Best Poems Written by Kim Morrison

Below are the all-time best Kim Morrison poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A Forever Kind of Love

If I could,
I would love you each day for the rest of my life as if there were no more tomorrows.

If I could,
I would show you the sheer rhythmic splendor of a true heart that yearns for only you.

If I could,
I would wrap you securely in my rugged loving arms and whisper baby your heart is safe with me, never again will it be broken or shattered by callous thoughtless fools who never knew your true worth.

If I could,
I would unleash a raging storm of passion in loving waves caressing every part of your luscious body ebbing just long enough to fulfill your every desire until you fall weak from the rapture of my love.

If I could
I would make you my queen of love dropping to my knees to devour your succulent flower until your back arches, your eyes roll back, and your screams of unbridled ecstasy rape the night’s quiet.

If I could,
I would make a foolish boyish attempt to be your greatest hero by being your anything and everything.

If I could,
make your heart love me like mine loves you for only a single day I would treasure each second.

If I could,
make you mine I will have captured the scarred unicorn and turned my greatest fantasy into a reality.

If I could,
I would change everything that separates our two restless hearts just so an us could be a possibility.

If you let me,
I would love what’s left of you even after more men have left you scarred and broken on the floor. I would then spend the rest of my days trying to love your shattered tear soaked heart back together.

If you let me,
I would knowing your life was coming to an end lift you up in my loving arms and say not yet baby one chapter has not yet been written and it may never be unless the last dance is mine and only mine.

If you let me,
I would show you the one love you have never known, a forever kind of love.

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2016

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The Teacher

O Teacher! My Teacher!
I would dare to channel a master just for you.
I know not if I am up to this lofty task,
but it is to your expectation that I try to rise. 
You never asked for anymore than my best
and I love you for never demanding any less.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
If you had not opened a locked door,
the engulfing rays of enlightenment
may never have caressed my yearning face,
or held me tightly in her awakening embrace
releasing the song desperately trapped in my soul.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
You always said I had a great gift.
If that is true, I heap all praise on you.
You have the most wonderful offering of all
for within you rested the ability to recognize
the potential now flowing freely under my pen.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
I will forever hold you in the highest esteem.
I am not certain if mere words could ever express 
the appreciation I have long held for your guiding hand.
Undaunted by the impossible task now in front of me,
this student will once again try to impress his teacher. 

This piece was inspired and written for Professor Judy Davis who taught at the College of Central Florida until she retired. She was my English Literature and Composition teacher the first time I went to college. Many go into teaching, but the special few, like Judy, are called to the profession. She is now enjoying her retirement, but her old student here still communicates with her occasionally. 

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Dear Rosebud

Dear Rosebud:
The morning dew gently caresses you
like the faint whisper of a young child's kiss.
Your limbs yearningly reach for the sun
as if awaiting a long lost lover's embrace.
Only a pair of vacant eyes could fail to see
the wonderful symphony of color waiting to be.
If allowed to come into full bloom uninterrupted,
butterflies will dance liltingly across your awakening splendor
as honey bees sing praises to your blossoms burgeoning bounty. 
I can only pray your thorns grow sharp and rugged enough
to defend against the groping  hands of life's wickedness.
Only the desires of the most savage hearts would ravage
a still unfolding beauty and extinguish a spectacle yet to be.
Only a vile pair of ears could fail to hear a shattering heart
and the soul deafening screams of a rose picked too soon.
Love dad...

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Hey Stop Calling Him Retard Joe You Guys

       School Bus drivers always have stories to tell and most of them come directly from the children that once our rode our buses. This one is no exception, but it is also a fine example of how kids themselves through laughter can overcome what we have all come to call bullying. Years ago I had a student on my bus that was slow and he talked a bit funny because of it. The other students used to tease and pick on him constantly by calling him "retard Joe."  I would yell at them often for picking on this kid, but as hard as I tried these little wise guys always found away to get a "retard Joe" remark or two in during just about every trip. One special day, Joe finally had it up to the top with their crap and decided to take matters in his own hands. Out of the blue Joe stands up from the front seat and turns to the students seated behind him and yells: "I not wetarded! I just stupid!"  Well the whole bus load of students just roared into a laughter so loud that I am certain it was heard a half a block away. What made matters worse is I started laughing so hard myself that I had tears in my eyes and had to pull the bus over just to regain my composure. At that point, I looked back at Joe and he was standing there behind his seat looking at me as if to say why is everybody laughing. I guess it suddenly hit him that instant why what he said made everybody laugh and then he began to laugh even louder than the rest of us. I don't know if the laughter erased all of Joe's pain from being picked on, but I can tell you that not one of those students ever called him "retard Joe" again from that point on.  Some of the same students that once picked on Joe went out of their way to talk to him and the kid they once called "retard Joe" became Jojo.  The moral of this story is never underestimate anybody because even someone who is a few fries short of happy meal can have a moment of stunning brilliance and teach us all a life lesson.

Unfortunately, even well-meaning people will call people like Jojo “special” without realizing that what makes them unique is their ability to laugh at themselves, not the fact that they are slow. It should be painful for all of us to watch someone, like Jojo, being picked on by others, but what we too often fail to recognize is that when we see this kind of thing happening we could in fact be witnessing the slow destruction of a genuinely good hearted person and in this day and age that is a Goddamned shame. Jojo has been out of school for more than half a decade now, but old Mr. “K” still talks to him on Facebook once in a while and he writes exactly like he speaks.   

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Words Unspoken

                                                  Anger shrouds my sorrow,
                                                  a storm rages deep within.
                                                  Questions without answers
                                                  swirl around my mind.
                                                  Damn! this emotional confusion.

                                                  Why the sacrifice?
                                                  Why the trade off?
                                                  Was it loneliness?
                                                  Was it greed?
                                                  Damn! the sadness I cannot feel.

                                                  Did you love me?
                                                  Were you proud of me?
                                                  Did you even care?
                                                  Why didn’t we talk?
                                                  Damn! your legacy of silence.
                                      Rage! Rage! against the death of the light.
                                      I curse the words unspoken, the truth not shed.
                           Why God?...Why?...Why must we part before the heart to heart?  

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Unknowing Hearts

 Wrapped in the passion of the moment
 engulfed in a cascade of a emotion 
 carried by a gushing torrent of desire
 dancing on the rapids of uncertainty
 two unknowing hearts intertwined 
 in the rapture of blinding passion
 rush toward forbidden waters.

 In the midst of love's blissful chaos
 will two unknowing hearts whirl 
 perilously over confusion's cliff 
 and plunge helplessly toward   
 the jagged rocks of ill-fated love,
 or will two unknowing hearts 
 be found desperately clinging
 to the last branch of innocents? 

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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One Old Hat

Wrinkled, worn, and weather-beaten
one old hat sits a loft a dusty shelf.
A witness to individual history,
a vision of days gone by
of both good and bad times,
a garment of many memories.

Like a King's crown,
the hat once sat cocked to the right
over a stern, but wise brow.
Well used and sweat stained,
but worn with dignity and pride
by one unyielding individualist.
A common man by all accounts
of uncommon quality and character.
A man who never lost focus
on the true widgets of life
even when it was at a cost.

A man who once owned:
a pocket full of dreams,
a desire for pure freedom,
a true lust for life,
and one old hat.

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Why me?
Why you?
Why do I?
Why do you?
Why now?
Why later?
Why didn’t you?
Why didn’t I?
Why didn’t you know?
Why didn’t I know?
Why did it have to be this way?
Why did it have to be that way?
Why did you stay?
Why did you go?
Why did life go this way?
Why did life go that way?
Why? Why? Why?
The tormenting word of questions
It rarely ever lets a mind rest
For the minds desire for answers is insatiable by nature.
The minds quest for discovery is unyielding and unending
For every answer found only gives birth to more questions.
No wonder madness grows taller in the thinking mind
The soil is far less fertile in the dull dim witted mind. 

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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Our Poet Destroyer

Like a buzzing bumble bee welcoming
the opening of stunning new blooms,
she flits constantly from page to page 
just to check out all the new poems.
If you are one of the lucky new poets,
she will pollinate your written work
with a sparkling comment  that will
often leave you in such a state of awe 
that rendering a response beyond
just a simple "thank you" is difficult. 
She is loved by many new poets
and appreciated by even more
while others green with jealously
envy her own poetic skill and talent.
She may go by this name or that name,
or occasionally use her given name,
but to all those who really do care
she will always be our "Poet Destroyer."

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013

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The Quill Masters

                             Whitman wrote of a great Captain
                             Keats Ode A Nightingale
                             Frost took The Road Not Taken
                             Donne knew For Whom The Bell Tolls
                             Thomas raged against The Dying Of The Light

                              Like Poe's Raven they are Nevermore,
                              But their works live on evermore. 

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013