Me

Me
So happy

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Losing eyes: The deaf and the dead

Sonnets were spoken-
Still, in the early hours
Silence reigned,
We broke bread
Over tepid fire
And terse conversation-
Glutton clouds
Gripped every drop,
Sodden ground soaked
With long-dead tears-
Forevers shattered
On the cross of today.

Still, star-crossed sinners
Wondered if we could love
Our parched hands, our palsy eyes
Quivering in anticipation-
Seizing the slippery moment
Like an upstream savior.
Too much, the deciduous leaves
Dying too soon-
Sacrificed in spring,
Solemn, the flora that should be rejoicing
Quiet, the quaking dead;
-She-
Feigned flight and fell
Before the sunrise
So,
She
Sojourned south
And
So, I am left
Weeping my grief
To the deaf
And the dead.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Raw

Hey everyone, I just wrote this original poem (6-12-14 at 4:26 PM) and have no idea why a poem about battle came to me, but hey, it did! I hope you enjoy!



It slit me to the core,
Having to mend the tendons,
Bone-stitching to save us-
Corpse-bridge swinging in carrion night,
Chagrined to see another collapse
Under the yolk of falling stars,
Puppet-masters penning their terribly play
Sketching the sickening sway,
Fish-hook mouths manic in violent hymn;
But we were no lambs,
Daggers under sinless wool
Wo! When the pendulum swung
To zenith heights,
Carving lustfully through the heavens
-White-eyes pregnant with death-
We arose in startled cry
Blood-brought blind
In fever and fury,
Rest did the weary blade-
Bludgeoning none save godless air,
Yet astride the iron-lit glare
Cold daggers of song and sin
Met like lovers-
In the flesh of our enemies.






***Copyright 2014. Richard Cameron Morgan***

Monday, June 9, 2014

It has already been written

It has already been written,
This tired verse,
Pretentiously penned in that
Sullen small-town cafe,
A song that speaks in somber beats
And shakes the heart of no-one,
Yet these words breathe into the ether,
This verse screams for the solace
Squeezed from draughts,
The smoking glass,
A shaky hand and a tired quill,
Palsy and poetry.
Yes, it is violent, the urges, the longing,
For, longing, for the never-ending
Hand-wrung hope that somewhere,
In-between the soft cycles
Of siren sleep,
 I could sink to the culling deep
And rest in peace.

Kick the chair

In the silent moments before the sun-set,
I begin to ponder as a moment passes
Sending shivers up my spine
And down this florescent hill-side,
It makes me cry,
The fading light 'gainst
The turbulent sky,
Restless, like my Icarus heart
Rattling the stoic trees,
Quaking no longer,
Stronger as nascent night advances
Shuffling with the jovial breeze,
Feels as if the world is dancing-
Just for a moment,
Garrotes crumbling to tinder-
Faith and fire for a new fellowship-
Mirth, for an endless night,
The massed song of joy un-bound,
Of verse unbridled,
Love, simply love in the experience,
In the feel of splintered rope
About my tender neck,
Of just the feel,
Bound to the final chair
Yet so aware,
Alive in death's tender grip,
Yet I disembark,
Yet, I struggle,
And still, I thrive.