Poetry: Night Magic


We strolled into the Belle Époque salon

Where tapered columns of black and gold,

Blended with evasive light to provide

A veneer for strained faces with worse odds,

Washing down the bitter remnants of luck

With gin and unrestorative tonic.

We sipped, grew restless, then emerged like moths

To a thunderstorm, dancing hand-in-hand

Across glass stones to a shadowy spot

Under tiled eaves. There we lit cigarettes,

Exhaled as the green sweep of the lighthouse

Flashed across our faces, while hungry rain

Devoured our smoke and the cool night magic

Moved us to find warmth in a long, deep kiss.


Photo: Biarritz by Night by Chris Eden

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: Aftershock


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.

© Nikos Koravos | Dreamstime.com

Poetry: A Mirage of Smiles


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.


© Melissa M. Morris | Dreamstime.com