Poetry: Colors


Shedding the silence of cocoon,

Sputtering in light-sucking street color,

Drenched in hormones, fluttering between limos

And losers in the great city, landing on a pay phone

Out of breath …

Aching for colors—pregnant moon, sunset tides,

Subterranean rose—your voice always filled me with colors,

Delirious colors—but when you picked up the phone

I heard only the lowest tones of the piano,

Distorted, ungraspable, building with fury

To catclaw dissonance.

For while I had been frantically recreating myself,

You’d been busy in the projection room,

Shattering my image into a thousand pieces of you.

©2011 Robert Morrow

Poetry: Two Versions


Two Versions

I wonder what you would have been like

If you had been born and raised

In a world without tradition,

Without specifications, without scripts.

In one version, I see you scampering

Out of the womb towards a dark cave

Where you crawl to the back and shiver

In moist paroxysms of rejection.

But I dislike that rendering and so I imagine

A child and woman filled with endless fascination

For experience and sensation, chasing butterflies

And souls with equal rapture.

Growing with the sun as melody to rhythm,

Syncopating on occasion to unnerve

The symmetry, dashing any impression

Of habit or rite.

Poetry: Poppy


We’ll take a break from The Numbers and share a poem or two. This particular poem was published in a lit mag by the name of Malevolence a few years back.




While covering familiar ground on a luminous night,

I happened upon a poppy which had spun itself

Into a tight little roll to guard against

The influence of moon and stars.


And I stopped to consider this problem,

A problem of will and desire. But I found

No solution, and left myself wishing

That the poppy would spread its full beauty

And give passion to the night.


But it was not in the code. The next morning

I saw the poppy unraveled by the sun,

Predictably pleasing, in fulfillment of all expectation—

But much too obvious; the colors

Washed; the display uncomfortable.


And again I found myself wishing that somehow

The programming could be disrupted for one moment

And that the poppy would silently withdraw from the sun,

To wait in joyful anticipation of the thrill

In surrendering beauty to moonlight.