Down a Dark Hall – M.A. Morris

Down the dark hall
She stumbled,
Running,
Trying to get away from the monster.

Down the dark stairs,
She fell,
Tumbling,
Falling away from the monster.

At night,
In the darkness
Of this house,
She now knew,
Knew monsters were real.

She screamed
Into the night darkness
Of the basement kitchen
As the monster caught her
By the arm.
She heard the low swooshing sound
Of the metal yardstick
Thrumming through the air.
She screamed again at the impact
Upon her back.

Behind her
Into the darkness
She looked
And saw
The monster’s face.

Down into the darkness,
She wished she could fall
When she knew
At the age of nine
Any monster could wear
A mother’s drunken face.


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

Modern Prometheus becomes the Little Stranger – M.A. Morris

So now we know,
You told me I wasn’t,
But I was—
Your creation.

Said you loved me
Just the way I was—
But was it true?

Yes, I was perfect
Just the way I was—
You said,
But you didn’t care for:
My curly hair,
My dresses,
My high heels,
My red lipstick.

So, I became a cut out,
A sewn together woman
Of the rest of my parts
With the parts you inserted.
Then electrified and brought back
To life by a love you claimed
Was for the true me.

Now the parts you inserted
Die away, shriveling at the lack
Of your electricity.
I stumble,
A stiff-legged walk to your door,
Shuck this graying shit and warm myself
By the fire I create to burn
These rigor mortised parts.
Thus, I become something more akin
To myself once again—
That little stranger
With curly hair,
Wearing dresses,
High heels,
And signature whore red—
I become
My little one.


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 Truth That Never Hurts – M.A. Morris

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a garden?
Of the Texas sky?
Of a home?
Or an empty house?

Is there a truth that never hurts?
The truth of a love?
Of the human heart?
Of a parent?
Of a child?
Of a dog?
Or even God?

When did the truth
Contained in each
Contain no pain?
No hurt?
Not a scrap?
Not a speck?


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: If You Could Be Mine – M.A. Morris

Friends surprise with a birthday dinner.
Then out to the bar for a few drinks.
They laugh and wink
When a tiny little thing
With long, dark shining hair
That looks so velvety soft
That to touch it would be
To fall up into a rural night sky
Of inky black laced
With the light of
A thousand stars,
Smiles at me,
And with the encouragement of her friends,
Asks me for a dance.
But she is young,
Much too young for me.

But I like the way she moves as if just for me.
I think I could do this just like I used to in my youth.
Something stirs within as if of old muscle memory
Of how to divorce the physical from the spiritual.
Yes, just like in my youth.
I could take her home,
Whisper things like,
“If you could be mine….”
And really go to town.
This funk I’m in
Kicked to the curb
For a few hours.

At least, until
I kick her to the curb
By asking her to leave.
What would the point of all that be?
To feel young and carefree?
Yes, for a few hours at least.
Better, I do think,
Just to drink
Tequila shots
Until the thinking stops.
Call an Uber for a ride.
Nurse my head in the morning.
And then sleep nearly all day.
But that’s just not really me
To waste such a day.

So, until the time she asks
For a dance not of the vertical variety,
Forcing a “no” as my only reply,
I think I will stay
And watch her sway,
Just for me
at least, I’d like to think,
Maybe throw back
One of the shots she buys
And just relax
At least for this while,
Wishing I was young enough
For her to be mine.


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 Space Between – M.A. Morris

Together,
We spent the day,
Hollow and empty,
Broken
Like that dropped
Carton of eggs
When you went to put them away.

Driving,
A county,
A state,
A country,
A continent,
A half a world
Filled the space
Between
Our seats.
Yet we managed
To untangle the web
Of our together lives.

Oh, yes.
We were so civilized.
Visits to banks,
To phone carriers,
To stores to complete
Separate lives out of what
Was once was unified.
Yes, we untangled the web
Of our lives together.
And the irony,
The irony is this knot
Inside my chest.
Yet, all I think–
We’re so compatible, so right.
How did it come to this?
The echoing bell
Within my skull
Rings with
A simple answer
I am too old,
Too old


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: Ash – M.A. Morris

Gather and pile
the wood neatly.
Stuff the paper
Torn from notebooks.
Pile the ribbon tied cards
High and wide.
Take a torch,
Or a lighter,
Or a match,
And light this pyre.
Let it warm the night.
Stand near enough
To let its heat
Make the body sweat
Away what remains
Of promises made
Promises kept
Promises broken
Promises turned lies.

Let the dead words
Burn in the flames
Of the pyre
Curling and turning black
Within the orange and yellow.
Mourn the death
Of words diseased
By lack of meaning
If you must.
And when it is done,
Cover your head
With their ashes.
Then let the rains
Wash you clean.


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: Curious Wine – M.A. Morris

I drink this curious wine
Amidst this dying battle
In the early morning hours
When sleep is a dream
Chased no longer.

A bruised oppressive rawness
Settles over all.
No joy to find
Amidst such wreckage.
I am siege wearied
By a bombardment of words.

Thus, I lay down the sword,
Offer up my neck to you.

And though I should win
The gold and gems,
It is bitter truth to swallow
In this curious wine
You’ve given me to drink.

I begin a day with no respite.
Stones piled
One upon the other,
Weighing on the chest.
I feel the crunch now of bones
Pressed by the tonnage.
Death by stones of grief.

 


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