Featured Post: The Gravity Between Us – M.A. Morris

In my final days,
I will soar into the sun
And wait for you.
Or should it be
Find you there
Waiting for me.
Then we will fly beyond,
Mingling and joining
With the elements
Of air
Of earth
Of water
Of fire,
Merging and separating,
And merging again.
For an eternity,
Playing in the gravity
Between us.

Then should we
Fall to earth once again,
No matter where,
No matter the time,
We will find
Each other
Again.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: Stone Butch Blues – M.A. Morris

(paying for your butch ego)

The fragility of the butch ego
To which we are slave,
Must be soothed by us,
Whispered to and petted,
In private,
As well as public,
So they can strut,
Cock of the walk.

Should their ego be slightly scratched,
A minor scratch that should be paid for by
Lips and tongue and sweet words,
Yet such currency is deemed unacceptable, rejected.
And so we must pay the price.
Have our own selves bound and lashed
By that stone butch cruelty,
Containing not a thing we crave.
Our every flaw memorized, learned by rote,
Recited daily,
As if a lamentation and a prayer
Were needed
To remind us of the
Imperfections of hip and thigh,
Of eye, nose, lips, and face,
Of breast and belly.
And before long, even of mind and soul.
Soon we become,
Not enough.
Our totality,
Added up
And blessed
Within the filthy
Ropes of our shortcomings,
No artistry within the knots.
—-All utilitarian in their purpose.

Until—
After you are gone,
One dear friend
Should hold a picture up to us,
A challenge to look.
Us, anew.
Nothing is different.
Yet we see not the list of imperfections
You used as a balm to your crackling, preening ego.

Now, that which was long missing has returned.
A fire kindled in the eyes.
Mischief and kindness curl the lips.
And life, glorious life, shines below the surface of skin.
I did gladly sacrifice the fire,
The mischief, the humor and kindness,
The life beneath the surface of the skin
To shroud and cradle
Your precious crystalline, fragile ego
So it would not break.
My diminished self, the glue
Which held the broken, chipped
Edges of your ego together.
Thus, you could assure yourself
Of your right to bluster
And strut in cockiness,
Telling yourself and me
I was lucky to have you
As you turned your face to the wind
And let your hair whip behind you.

Now, I place that pony tail
In the bottom of my jewelry box,
Laid to rest like so many things.

As you wait for me,
Think of me renewed,
Undiminished.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: The Well of Loneliness – M.A. Morris

Searching for something
In this void
Of fatigue–
A tender touch
Or warm skin to lie against,
A hope to grasp
When against slick
Stone.

Hours pass.
Anger and sadness silently left
And closed the door.

But the heart is chambered
Like a shell,
Swirling down within itself
Until reaching a breaking point
Of being long overdrawn,
Overworked, over tired,
Over
Over
Over.

Still learning in the stillness
Of time mixed with languages
Neither known nor understood
At all.

When there be no common ground
To stand upon–
A start, a beginning is lost.
In the travels
To find new shores
In this age
Without directions
Or something resembling
The instruction manual.

Turn to ask a friend,
“How does that dialogue go again?”
But there is no answer
In the old cliché’ of “seek and ye shall find”
You’ve knocked upon the door
And no one answered.

Live days in monastic silence,
Find it difficult to voice an answer
To the Walmart clerk saying,
“Have a nice day!”

Every night
Crawl downward and in,
Say a small, silent fervent prayer—
“I will always miss you
And I will always love you.
May my soul find you.”

Waking in fragments
To find it is time
For glue and duct tape.
They fix anything
That needs to be held
Together
At the bottom
Of the well.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: The Price of Salt – M.A. Morris

I went to all my baskets of words
To find them emptied out.
In fact, it seems
Anger and sadness
Sandblasted holes
Clean through the dang baskets.

Then I went to all my junk drawers of words,
Pulled each open and found each empty.
Frustrated, I tugged them all the way out
To make sure no junk, trying to hide away,
had shimmied behind the drawers.
But my efforts were to no avail.
All my words were gone, stolen.
Even my most treasured one,
Used ever so rarely for food or wine,
Used just once, only once,
For a love.

Is this the price?
The price I pay for salt?
But this isn’t essential
To human existence.

No, I should report a robbery.
Call the cops and say,
“Someone stole all my words
And my most treasured one.”
Then I could file an insurance claim.
Perhaps collect something incalculable
And patch those dang baskets.
But how would they calculate
The value of such a word?
Used so rarely for things
And only once, just once
For something, someone rare?
How to calculate exquisite?

Image courtesy of Pinterest


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: Tipping the Velvet – M.A. Morris

Some character on a stage once said
She’d cut her lover out into little stars
To grace the face of heaven.

But no, I’d not cut you out in little stars
As someone writ of fictional lovers.
Though, yes, you would indeed refine
The face of any heaven.

Perhaps, I’d make of you
Velvet curtains
To shield me from the sun.
Yes, that would capture the softness
Of your skin.
The safety and protection
Wrapped up within you.

No, I think I’d rather make of you
a carving of wood,
Capturing the lines of you,
Smooth, curving to the touch.
The warmth of you glowing in the oiled grain.

Or perhaps, I’d make of you
A field of flowers,
Rich in hunger causing aromas and petal softness.
The balm of Gilead for a stricken soul.

No, no. I know I’d make of you
The earth
So, you’d nourish
While I tended you
And so always
You would
Return to me
In the velvet
Of the soil.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: Happy Endings Are All Alike – M.A. Morris

Or so they say.
Wish I may,
Wish I might,
Find one to curl up into tonight.

But it’s too late.
Far too late for that.
I can imagine what those endings are like.
I’ve read them in books.
I’ve seen them in movies.
I’ve even lived them for a little while,
A season, maybe two,
A few years and played a fool
Because I wanted too
And didn’t want to see
A truth or two.

I have friends
Who model happy endings.
It’s really sickening
In the syrupy sweetness
Of it all.
Yes, they are all alike,
I do suppose.

Perhaps,
Unhappy endings are most interesting
Of all.
I don’t really know.
I’ll tell you at the end.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing

Featured Post: Desert of the Heart – M.A. Morris

I snip the spent roses
From the bushes
And place the browned edged heads
Into this bag.

The bag is filled pink and yellow petals
Dried from the sun
Or beaten from the hail of thunderstorms.

I continue to the next bush.
Do the bushes feel relieved of a burden?
No longer having to spend energy on buds dead or dying?
Or do they want their dead and dying
To hold close and cherish the ending?
Would they rather have these old buds
Than the new wounds I have opened for them?
Is this the purpose of their thorns?
To keep the well-intentioned gardener away from their limbs?

A thorn snags my arm
And blood drops onto
The pink and yellow brown edged beaten petals
Like water in the oasis
Of this desert of the heart.


I am a retired teacher, enjoying said retirement.  I have been active in the gay and lesbian community since I threw away my Ken doll at the age of four.

You can read more of my writing at Hearing The Mermaids Sing