Walking in Circles Page 2

Washing The Whore

  I have drunk the maddening wine of her

  whose service enslaves me. And I have slept

  in the arms of a harlot I thought was pure,

  then tried to wash your feet with the tears wept

  in fear of the ax that falls on dead wood.

  I have slumbered as if eternity

  meant nothing. So now in this interlude

  I seek proof that you still listen to me.

  Though in a leaky vessel I contain

  your love, you grant the time I waste on sin

  and purify the water, make it wine

  by degrees. I know my grief is your pain.

  Waiting for the rise to occur again

  is a meal on which we both have to dine.

  Closet

  This is the not quite silent room where dreams

  happen to the still and listening. Where

  tired flesh rests and minds seek to be bare.

  And the voice of God speaks-- above the screams

  of a world gone mad with its own course--

  in a whisper. And we inhale his breath

  praying to exhale his life, live his death.

  Here in the graveyard of our true remorse,

  here in the shower where shadows come clean,

  righteousness occurs in the heart prostrate,

  broken, buffeted by the wind, his mate.

  Then the soul delights in a kiss unseen.

  In this dark room where the Master knows praise

  the chilled hearts of children begin to blaze.

  Calliope

  Most moments of most days

  he drives normally

  the machines of mundane mass monotony:

  computers and cars on a colorless calliope.

  Most minutes he is sane.

  But something --

  perhaps an odd shape or hue of sky

  or chord from radio or tire-strumming road,

  maybe the scent of a hidden factory

  or the brush of man-made air on his face

  or the taste of winter in his coffee --

  some undetectable thing

  from time to time works its way

  into a place within that science cannot measure,

  and he pauses.

  And he pulls over his mind,

  unseen in plain view,

  and screams so loud only God can hear.

  Candle

  I'd lie awake

  and watch for a small light

  the would peek outside

  my mother's door.

  Every night

  she would light a candle

  next to her replica of the Piet?

  and the monsters would not come around.

  P.C. Jazz

  A metal spring on my floppy disk drive

  came out of place and forced its tiny door

  to close its thin mouth denying my square

  tablet admittance. Why it should contrive

  to hold my hard work ransom I could not tell.

  Nor did I ask. So I cursed the machine,

  dismantled it, then held the door open.

  But it said, "Abort, Retry, or Cancel?"

  More curses came from me. "I'll abort you,"

  I said. "Retry this!" preceded a poke

  from my sharp finger. But with the stern look

  of a dorm mother, it hid from my view

  all data and all paths to data. Then,

  before despair could strike, I saw my pen.

  Serenade

  Sleep, then.

  I'll soon have nothing more to say--

  nothing of importance.

  You've heard, read

  my "I love you" enough.

  You won't forget.

  And I suppose I don't need

  to hear your laughter

  which reminds me of those tangerines

  you taught me to love--

  sweeter, less messy,

  easier to peel than even perfect oranges.

  Go ahead, sleep.

  Forever, if you must.

  You'll like me better.

  I won't intrude-- just yet.

  I'll even try to keep

  from speculating your thoughts.

  And you won't have to suffer

  with how to say

  what you really think

  of my poems.

  Anytime now,

  (I suppose when it's time to be tired)

  I'll lay down next to you

  and meet you in slumber.

  Until then I hope

  that my repose will be

  sweeter and less messy

  and my clothes easier to peel

  than when you shed your summer dress

  and left me whispering

  beside your grave.

  Smoldering

  You smoke deliberately, with style.

  I stumble over reality.

  And you, who thought you saw it coming,

  grimace behind an uncomfortable smile.

  Doctor Jude Sings A Requiem

  And it sounds like God is clearing his throat

  preparing to cough up the flem that is us.

  You hear trumpets too? They are a racket to me.

  I heard a voice in the waves one night

  that said a storm, that storm, is easy to calm.

  And I even saw the form of those sounds

  ignore the lightning and defy the thunder

  as he danced on the surface

  to where my boat rocked like a world gone mad.

  And I've smelt the black-red stench of death

  as flesh drops and melts around me.

  We all reek of gangrene here

  in a land bound in the tourniquet of time.

  And there are moments

  between the contracts and the cursing,

  when some old leper

  fighting for another gasp of fetid oxygen

  claims to see beyond the touchable ceiling

  and begs with words lacking reason

  before falling into final, humane sleep.

  A Pause at the Eye

  It's raining still.

  Another clich? day to add to the struggle,

  more on the doggerel pile

  of twenty-four hour periods on my back.

  But it is a dark night at four in the morning,

  no matter what any armchair philosopher says.

  After the latest skirmish in the war of coexistence,

  I'm finally alone with my chest pains and cd player,

  occasional lightning the only violent word,

  a voice that keeps me awake.

  So I should be content.

  Got my tunes, my books, paper to write on,

  and nothing much to do.

  I seem to remember a Simon and Garfunkel song about that.

  Outside these glass walls the wind scrapes

  across treeless, rain beaten streets.

  A perfect time, safe in the warm house, for introspection.

  But this day seems heavier than most,

  and I've nowhere close to set it down.

  So I better keep walking.

  How to skip class

  It's easy.

  Just say to yourself:

  "They are not gonna talk about anything important

  and I'm sure I can handle whatever I miss.

  Besides, I am feeling pretty bad today

  and I wouldn't want to have to run out of class;

  wouldn't wanna cause a scene.

  And I've got this assignment in this other class

  that I'm sure I ought to spend time on

  because I skipped the lecture last week

  and now I feel like I'm two weeks behind.

  "Skip this class?

  I've got so many problems I may have to drop it."

  New November Poem

  Outside

  there is a kaliedoscope of change

  in trees, gra
ss, and sky

  and people

  on the fall-trying-to-be-winter morning.

  And for once I'm comfortable

  wearing a sweatshirt

  seeing sweaters on nice-breasted women

  sniffing perfume off the sharp passing air

  because I have Everything

  that makes comfort.

  I'm not afraid of winter,

  confident that God

  will not let it get too cold.

  view from a car seat

  she watches trees go backwards

  in silence

  while papa's quiet is broken

  by pop music or a sports report

  turning her head

  she points drowsy eyes at daddy

  who touches her chin

  and she smiles weakly

  falls asleep and sees

  a knight

  dressed up like her father

  find still

  is there any possibility

  that i can escape the graffiti heads

  and the children of cosmetics

  and find still

  kisses wet and back rubs

  whispers and songs

  an untrite way to be sentimental

  ginathis poem is for you because today

  i feel nothing

  moments fade alternately

  when i sense loss

  then anger for letting the feeling

  come

  dancin'

  man, remember when rock

  was what we listened to at night while we laughed

  at jocks and hot girls at the skating rink

  and sometimes we just listened

  while thoughts formed

  and:dancin' was what we did

  to 'get high

  forget the pain of living alone/together

  run from the fear of dying

  and, of course, meet more girls

  we worshipped sex/ourselves

  david danced before the Lord

  with all his might

  oh and he had a lot of might

  you can't get out of the bottle now

  it's such a mighty spirit

  there's a voice in the wind

  but you're deaf to this rock

  time and again david fell

  found mercy only to fall again

  ooh, but when he danced, charlie,

  he danced with all his might

  'cause he learned to call God "my strength"

  the philistines bit the dust

  and david broke out the band

  they partied like crazy

  you haven't lost your might, charlie,

  you've only lost your sight

  i remember you and i believe

  we're gonna worship together again

  and man, are we gonna dance

  An idle mind

  Take this paunch, for instance,

  this brutal thing that came

  as a result of the sneaky change

  in metabolism.

  And that accursed television

  a stand for a forgotten trophy)

  enticing me away

  from the adventures

  the library once yielded.

  Life's pace, too quick and boring

  and comfortable and callous,

  I am afraid to change.

  Because I remember

  a lost idealism

  I may scream

  or (if she and the kids are asleep) cry a hushed and trembling tear.

  Standing in the doorway

  I walked into the house

  and Mother was throwing books

  and books of words

  at everyone.

  She hollered something

  to my father

  who was sitting on a motorcycle

  and sometimes dismounted

  to speak calmly to Mom

  who had had enough of calm.

  Daddy stumbled to his bike

  one last time

  and sort of rode away.

  He would come back, I was sure,

  and he did a few days later,

  though I have forgotten why.

  My brothers cried much

  that day and others.

  Especially Bryan because he's so sensitive.

  Mama cried too. Perhaps Papa did also

  but I don't know.

  I just stood in the doorway

  and watched.

  Each night I wet the bed

  and every morning I cried

  because I was so cold.

  Dallas

  Warmed by tea

  on Friday morning.

  Dallas is awake and moving now

  as the radio pours bits of optimism

  into this mellow office.

  Skylines are great

  when seasoned with night and jazz.

  But it is morning now

  and simpler tunes

  accent the sunlit smog

  around the huge mortal buildings.

  And airplanes take off and land

  failing to make it to Heaven

  while a child smiles in confidence.

  Bio

  Michael Neal Morris attended East Texas State University (now Texas A&M in Commerce) where he earned a B.A. in 1985 and an M.A. in 1995. He teaches English at Eastfield College in Mesquite. He has published a number of stories both online and in print. He has worked as a secretary, technical writer, janitor, and tutor. He lives with his wife and children just outside the Dallas area.