Poetry: The Human Touch

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Note: This poem is revised from an earlier version . . . there were two words in the original that simply didn’t project the imagery I envisioned.

 

We are terminally predictable,

Structuring physics and metaphysics

From dead analogies and tired neurons,

Seeking destiny in faux horizons,

Avoiding the unpleasant here and now,

Forever hungering for a phantom

To provide an illusion of purpose.

The impossible is born in two ways:

From the survival fears that drive us

Blindly in search of another morning,

Or from the sound we hear when the chains snap

And our spirits flee in rapturous joy

From the ancient curse of isolation,

To the sustaining ache for human touch.

 

© 2012 by Robert Morrow

Poetry: Aftershock

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I have plotted arcs with compass, calculated

Hard angles with protractor and arrived

At the inescapable conclusion.

The mind is satisfied, for I have found

A defensible position against

The expectations of all the others

Through safe, secure and simple surrender.

After a brief moment in logical

Triumph, a black shadow of emptiness

Seeps through to my bones and the thing inside,

The inconvenient me, surges, careens,

Cracks the walls in furious aftershock,

Revealing the flaws in human structure,

Releasing the sanity of spirit.

Photo Credit: BLUE WINDOW AT DESERTED HOUSE
© Nikos Koravos | Dreamstime.com

Poetry: A Mirage of Smiles

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Dividing the thrills of breathing new form

To thought and feeling are black-veiled moments

When, like the soldier scraping his belly

On the claws of a nameless hill, the stark

Meaninglessness of human endeavor

Burns the eyes with the bleak insanity

Of response to misguided stimuli.

These moments, when helping hands are wishes,

When friendships mutate into transactions

Long filed and forgotten, grip you with chills,

With fear that you will never leave that hill,

That what you believed was life was nothing

More than a mirage of smiles, a handful

Of pixie dust on which you built your dream.

 

Artwork: FANTASY SKY MOUNTAIN SILHOUETTE
© Melissa M. Morris | Dreamstime.com

Poetry: Dark Woods

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Bathed in silver, the sun played memories

Of light to guide me through the dark woods

Where I found an unfamilar path

That I somehow remembered from a dream.

At the end of a path stood a stone house,

Bright and pulsing with warm intelligence,

Curiosity, laughter and red wine.

We talked for hours before I wound my way

Back the now familiar path to bed.

The next day, morning shook me with alarm,

And through the fog I found another place,

Unfamilar and strange, with cold walls

Dark and dreary with boredom, with people

Whose shriveled souls ached for the deep, dark woods.