Poetry: The Human Touch


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: Claustrophobia


The feeling is one of pure nakedness

Suspended in billows of soft cotton,

Pressure rising from all the poor choices

I made that nestled me into this trap.

To speak is unthinkable, to accept

The hand you offer me impossible,

For every vibration in my soul

Translates simple gestures into danger.

Right now I ache for open roads, clear skies,

Freedom from the chains of all past choices,

A future where I owe no one nothing,

Where I can love your rich, simple essence,

Where closeness will not be the enemy,

But the warm fire I have sought all my life.