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.

To be human

Hey folks, this is a new original poem that I just wrote. I hope to type up and write the other poems that I've written lately, ASAP! This has been a pretty prodigious period for writing, so I'd love to share them with you all. Thanks for reading!

To fell

All that is human,

To live divine.

I began this journey

With sharp-tongued sonnets-sheathed,

Broad-sword bound to the ideal

That everything is sacred,

The ebb and flow,

Like a sun-dial,

Constant, Continuous,

Immutable;

Alas, the winds changed,

Bone-cold-zephyr breeze

Buried the laconic Lily,

Lush spring withered

Before Autumn’s rise,

A twilight of spoken words

I can hardly remember.

We lit those chrysanthemums

Like candles, defying death,

Sang hymns to the dying embers;

Sinewy smoke

Dripping from pine bones—

Culling our chants,

Love-lipped verses

Sacrificed by scented flame—

En-route to the empty heavens.

Still, we are east-born to the ether,

Airy vapors like marionette lovers

Entrained to the funeral beat,

In silent pantomime;

Perhaps, even now

Amidst perpetual winter,

As fog rises o’er

This fallow land,

—Perhaps—

Somewhere, still,

They love. 

***Copyright 2014. R. Cameron Morgan***

Sea-bourne

I often stared through that grated-

Wooden gate,

At a half that should've been whole,

Like two hands cleaved by an

Eddying mass.

A pier leading to nowhere

Birthed from an open wound-

It screams for connection,

But is severed by unknown hands.

I yearn for its weathered palms,

Gaze in envy at its steadfast resolve,

Intractably doting,

Like Thermopylae,

It gives no ground to the treachery

Of that light-strangled sea.

Indelibly graceful in aesthetic loneliness

Alone, alone...but, wait-another

Dismayed at the thought of company,

I'm in no mood for the cacophony

Of conversation,

But, eve' in the sfumato of the ever-

Churning bay,

I notice her siren-strange-beauty;

Tempests rip at the bones 

Of the planks that support me;

I've never been more still

Entranced, by, I can't quite see,

En-rapt by, her serenity

Aura, an eldritch glow

Teeming in the phosphorescent dark.

Never have I needed, like I

Needed her, bone-longing

My oft-beating heart turned

Salt and swell dividing-

I could take no more,

A-top the groaning post

I looked back, but once

To a defrocked world,

Heard the lyre of desperate angels

And wondered,

Whether gentle love was

Worth living as Werther-

Jumped before sluggard thought

Panted and proclaimed itself,

Head-first into the swarthy sea

Rip-tides tearing, gasping for air

But only singing her name,

Blinded by tide and terrified 

By her beauty.

So close, so close to freedom

So near, so near happiness. 

So close.

-Written by Cameron Morgan on 4-11-14.

 

Culling and the catharsis

I left the station today
Bone-soaked, mothy-haired
Shedding like a withered lizard
I wished for the comfort of her portico
 Found iron-bound gates
And an elegy euphemized as
Haiku
Rested my head on a granite
Slab
Even the dead are nameless here
Found no rest
Like the scarecrow of Golgotha
Sang to plaintive birds
Silence
No music in the still symphony
Weary soles stabbing
The static earth
I am old now
Wandering one
Whispering to the willows
Always her grace
Always her name
Always her wonder
Always her terror
Change inexorable
Change indelible
Change inexhaustible
Wakeful death.

Thus she spoke

In the waking moments of slumbering nights,
I hear her whisper-
The sounds of silhouettes,
Like puppets at the gallows.
 I can't help but listen-
Violins screaming against strained strings;
 I walk the fallow fields of the streets she
Created, sketched in recycled books,
Newspaper and receipts of faded memory-
At the expiry of an inebriated evening.
I toast an empty glass to
 The dead stars and their forgetful light
And begin to dream again.






***original poem, created by Cameron Morgan. Copyright 2014. ***

I nearly forgot

Original stream of consciousness poem-written on 12-6-13. thanks for reading!!

Love,
I saw you in hallways,
And nearly forgot
To make that motion
-Memento-
 Teeth-bit and turned around.
Darling,
I move too fast
And pass the little things-
Like the rain,
God,
Like the rain;
Did you notice?
The sky wept tears
For Mandela,
But also of
-Joy-
 Rebirth-
Of the never-ending, twice-risen-
Rock-rolling
Elation-
The kind that can't
Stay dead.

Blüme,

You are beautiful-
My heart is bountiful,
And I just can't help
-Thinking-
That your smile would look
-Lovely-
Lying next to mine.
Well, sometimes looks
 Speak louder than words,
And sometimes grand songs
Sulk to silent places-
Pantomiming nothing.
I just want to sing with loud letters
Forming your name,
Just want to let the deluge
Flood the sewers and fill the streets,
Culling, cathartic-
Yet, your eyes.
That look,
Resembling...
I remember...
Red weddings
-And-
Remarkably:
Renaissance.