Waiting For Santa
She spent her last dollars
on milk and cookies,
arranged on a spotless
chipped plate, liquid
in a re-washed paper cup
(the only set she had).
Fell asleep on the rug
a gift of salvation
along with two rough chairs,
a candle in the dark,
Sterno and a couple of matches.
Fist of awakening rubbed from eyes,
maybe it was the absence of a tree,
one bare stocking taped on the wall,
the heating coal must have fallen
from the holey sock, powdered
from the drop, wind blown away.
She had written an unanswered letter,
not asking much: money for the lights,
fuel for the fire, and, if it wasn't too presumptuous,
somehow, someway, to have a way out.
© 2011
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 12.24.11)
editor's note: 'Tis the Season, deck the halls, chestnuts roastin' - now to find the right colored paper and the perfect box within which to wrap a way out. God rest ye merry!- mh
Chance
Awaken
from indeterminate sleep,
warm bathe of comfort,
the calming squeeze
of dark red canal,
light blinds at emergence,
the primal scream
of those unused to cold air.
Surge of blood
from mother's wound,
head long rush
into consciousness
another gene
from an endless pool,
brought together
by a chance encounter,
one quick zygote
swimming into eternity.
- Rose Morales
© 2011
(added 12.24.11)
Dying Alive
Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb,waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.
We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes,our eyes
forever surrendering to "Buy more Coke".
And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.
My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.
You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:
"I think I'm dying".
I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,
"Honey, we all die sometime"
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 12.20.10)
Flux
I am not the chrysalis.
There is no change in me.
Just a drawing into man made cocoon,
scratchy wool surface covering what I'd like to disappear.
There is no evolution,
no Devo,
no desire to stay the same.
Erosion might chip pieces here and there,
sediment might gather in forgotten crevasses.
I am less, and more
with no thought to how it seems.
I will let life have its way with me,
a bit of neutral hue, a touch of pink
the black gangrene of perpetual non movement,
The inability to run or stay.
It's so much easier this way;
to simply sit, drenching wet, wind blown dry,
or merely drift with the tide.
Here in stasis where the world waits to breathe,
let momentum carry me, I will not stop or go;
Just flow.
Nothing is the way to be,
No joy
No sorrow,
No right or wrong....
Just flux.
- Rose Morales
(added 12.20.10)
The Sky Is Falling
I've saved two pennies for Henny.
Quick stepping under pieces of sky,
a flood of memories pouring in, I
had forgotten to close the shutters
and the world rushed in, needle stings
in the broken fabric, my face feels wet
and I finally found the reason why.
I hear the ping, ping, of drops against
the tile roof, a symphony of litanies
crying "Duck, duck!" but my legs are
hard to bend and I can't get down. My
umbrellas are burning to keep me dry;
the doomsayers in the coffin box are
screaming "Help! we're all gonna DROWN!"
I laugh, because I'm growing old, and yes,
I think I know about sorrow and pain. The
oracles speak of the coming Apocalypse
but I know it's only rain.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 09.28.10)
Dead
I might perhaps wax patrician,
dressed in flimsy, Kmart wings
my tail tucked neat between
my legs, my knapsack packed
with bribery; for if by chance
I find I'm wrong, I won't waste
time with dogma or philosophy.
Some spices placed within a pocket
of a purple, well worn shirt, then if I'm
grokked I'll make a fine soup, drink
me with a glass of chardonnay, you'll
probably fine some sugar hidden in
the cambric weave, which afterwards
will make a very sweet dessert.
Since I've come so close to leaving,
thinking of my wayward past, I'd like
to guarantee my comfort, let my soul
be free at last. I'll send instructions
to relations, outlining their celebration,
beer, agave, salt and lime, I want
them all to have a time, for I
don't want my family grieving.
- Rose Morales
(added 09.28.10)
Braille
How could I not have seen it?
Wandering, wondering in Braille,
making my point far too obvious,
wanting to see inside of you, through
your eyes, under your skin, entering
every pore, all entryways opening
to my touch; I was too eager, too earnest,
ended up trying way too much.
Licking drip off fingernails, new to the sense
of flavor as education, finding blood not to my liking.
Needling, picking at your bumps and scars,
poking into places better left alone.
In knowing I destroyed the magic, broke
this bubble of happiness, discovering too late
That you cannot taste the rainbow.
Now we stumble along naked alleyways,
leaves and trash blown harsh against our faces,
stranded, stagnant against this rolling tide
the enlightened merely side step blithely.
The blind now leading the blind.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 05.24.10)
Silence
Funny how we kill the silence.
Auto horns, tv blears, machinations of machinery's hum
and thrum, children laughing, crying, jumping through the city
streets rife with music, curses, rumblings of humanity's need
to fill the air with noise, a minute spent in comemplation
seen as useless waste, the filling up of air and space.
Gone.
As smoke into a venting fan, the cacophony of man
disappears, and in its wake is
Silence?
Wind through fertile fields, bird songs, dogs bark, cats cry,
rain upon the grassy knoll, the fall of leaves on pristine grounds
untouched by sapian foot or paw, the ceaseless mewl of man
sucked into nature's gaping maw, escape of breath held in
at pause between the words, a period, writ in red ink, the ending of the story.
But not the thought. Listen: this is what silence has wrought.
- Rose Morales
(added 05.24.10)
Timeless
Then is a lame horse
unable to stand on four legs.
It limps along in misery,
but we are too attatched
to fire that final bullet
and end its suffering.
Now is a faery wisp,
nymph flitting from flower to flower,
and we with our butterfly net
full of holes, vainly trying to snag the prize,
when it is right before us if we just stand still.
(But we will not)
Insufferable are we,
reaching ever forward
for that tommorrow that is nearer than we think,
sacrificing today for a glimpse at a puff of smoke.
Sit.
Breathe.
Then and now coexist with tomorrow
in a netherworld of mist and shadows,
and we will have it all
if we open up our clenched fists
to let it fly free, a sycamore seed
that hovers in the sun splayed breeze.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 01.12.10)
Come and Go
Standing at the window
at the coming (or going?)
Vehicles of expression
winding through
roads of discovery, loss
as we're tossed into the arms
of long arrivals, short conversations,
sad goodbyes on the borders of away.
Changes pass rapid
through watery eyes,
ripping out a piece of heart
at every leaving,
as we stand with lantern lit,
awaiting the return exchange.
- Rose Morales
(added 01.12.10)
Indulgences
I slipped a sawbuck
to the crippled Pope
way back when
when it was still possible
to buy your way into Heaven.
Then, like a camel
through the needle's eye,
heated and glowing,
blinding all to the sight
of the numbers
on a bank statement,
goodness reigned
in the heart's of the hypocrites,
dirty kneed urchins
proclaming their worthiness.
And I tore my lapels,
and scored my flesh,
putting pistol to open mouth,
razor to wrist,
indulging in rituals to speed my way
past the needy few
to secure my interview,
curious as always,
scouring the legalese,
searching to find where the rules changed.
I was thrown a bone
with a bit of gristle,
a watery soup of my dour lamentations.
Ipso facto, my habeas corpus
overlooked the fine print,
the ink on the time line;
indulge in the self as much as you see fit,
whine and cry, gesture and decry,
raise your fists in the air and scream "WHY?"
...but it's gonna cost you.
-------
It's raining today.
Is God in the heavens
crying for us lost souls?
Crocodiles line the gates,
snapping at whatever hapless toes
dare to venture past the Demilitarized Zone.
It was just a simple
flick of the Bic,
red ash falling,
the Word that ignited thought.
Satan kicked himself,
realizing it was all too easy,
while God sat back
and blew smoke rings.
Maybe He had pity on us,
sending spittle our way
to cool our frying brains,
sending welcome relief
to those who had taken the heat
for Jesus for far too long.
I believe in nothing
and everything,
belief in the right
to choose my own inaccuracies,
my own way to singe my soul.
I'm sending a tear or two
right back at you, Lord.
I believe,
I believe...
I believe I'll have another beer.
- Rose Morales
(added 01.12.10)
High
High on school;
a bad acid trip
made worse by monotony,
endless repetition
of useless facts
to kill the days
til they dressed you up,
kicked you out,
unprepared,
un caged,
ready to fire.
(Rah rah ree)
Kick up those skirts
(I'm not wearing underwear)
The nerds are salivating
the jocks gesticulating
the stoners oblivious
the Goths indigenous
black and invisible
laughing at the whores
smoking in the bathroom (girl's bathroom)
boy's bathrooms for cheerleaders
blow job foreplay
before play
mud under the bleachers.
And I comatose
learning by osmosis
the time of my life
til the end of my sentence,
give me my diploma
a pat on my ample ass
gas in the Pinto
putting full speed
into real.
The only good thing
about that institution
was finally leaving
and finally learning
(Life is not a High School)
- Rose Morales
(added 11.12.09)
Emo
I heard you were searching for darkness.
Come with me and I'll lead the way
past shining manakins with plasticine skin
who grin and preen in the deepening gloom.
Blow out that infernal candle,
it will not be needed in this room.
I will ponder your poisons,
powerful potions to bring on forget,
the hair of the dog, the bite of the widow
numb warmth infusion erasing regret,
replaced with tunnel vision,
blinders on the Rider's horse.
I will send a sharp retort,
a strop to hone it to a lethal point,
a view of a blue vein,
a slice for a life,
a drop upon a brittle lip
to seal that waxy crest, a missive's end.
And I will send you my nightmares
as I have so much to spare
renting my restlessness night for night
the punishment you seek within your sight,
for I have packed my phantoms in a velvet bag,
and left it here for you with lock and key.
The night holds no more mystery for me,
so many years I walked along this path
now coming lastly to this precious fork
I choose the way that's lit with colors true,
and leave my ghostly memories with you
who are more skilled at courting tragedy.
- Rose Morales
(added 11.12.09)
Opium
Petals falling on the glassy surface,
picked one by one,
illusions sinking fast,
the weight of fact upon them
(the truth be, the truth be not...)
Words are only lies
if the real is hidden
behind a dance of veils.
(spin, doctor, spin)
Take that head off the platter,
it makes for a bitter dish
and eyes are better used to see.
Tongues are rather used for speaking
out when all are mouthing platitudes
meant to silence all adversaries,
but used as a rallying cry
for those well tired of bullshit.
Opiates are mirrors and mist
religion the final destination
of those too lazy to find the answers,
dogma being the pet of the masses
who gladly eat what's fed them.
If you need a hero, be one yourself,
walk hand in hand with your own two hands,
and pledge your love to you.
It will be a match made on Earth
that lasts through the eternities.
(you may now kiss the mirror)
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 11.12.09)
It's MY pie
I slip, incognito
into the blindness of the day,
happy to meander sightless,
braille touch to hot coals
while my goose is cooked,
tender to the knife
and obviously forked up.
A morsel for your mercy,
tasty poison in a loving cup,
delivered in a rendered sauce
for a hypocrite's gander.
I duck from the solar flares,
far from the gamma rays
of exploding suns,
run to the icy regions
where the spots don't reach,
cool in my unique sameness.
Delivered ready to eat
into the fires of my own making.
Captured in the hungry mouth
of a jealous Satan,
I have stolen from him
my own little slice
of Hell.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 10.05.09)
Enter CAD
My life is neither
here nor there
but always in the flux
between the two;
now and later
being concepts the mind
refuses to accept.
My feet are pointed
in the direction
they must travel,
one leg follows the other
in an endless journey
to the other side.
26 letters make up
a universe of thought,
as if the keyboard
reaches to infinity,
fingers stretching
to achieve the last word.
And the last word, as always,
will grow to be these three:
Control, Alternate, Delete
- Rose Morales
(added 10.05.09)
Godless
We are godlike
If god is an idiot,
remorseless in his uselessness,
fervent in his never right,
omnipotent in his small, small pond.
And we are doughy,
shapeless monsters wrought
with broken glass and splinters,
molded into forms of beasts
on pointed barbs.
Atoms squeezed
to breaking point;
always one odd electron
where there should be none,
squeaking, imploding,
black hole eyes
the mirror to no soul.
We are everything,
and we are nothing.
Hapless children born
to be anything
But god
- Rose Morales
(added 10.05.09)
The Beach
The beach has
aromas of shells
and dead fish
here on the waterline
where the tide rolls in.
Green bits flounder,
ripped apart
from their offshore home;
gulls peck
at the fleshy remains,
find nothing of substance;
head to the jetty
for the chance
of a rock smashed
June repast.
Children run
past shattered castles,
kicking remnants on
98 pound weaklings
who even Atlas
simply shrugged off.
Under the boardwalk
the scents are different;
taffy, and French fries,
the briny smell
of last night’s amateur
excursions.
Clubs
are shuttered
in the light of day,
dark with their
Don’t ask, don’t tell
attitudes.
I am near
with my net
and detector,
searching as always
for meaningless treasure.
Salt dries
on leather
as I secret
my cache,
grains gathered
one by one
in cut glass jar,
remedy now for
broken
hourglasses.
I still hear laughter
from the far off Casino,
long before
Conventions were abandoned,
the round,
smiling clown
against the blue paint,
urging all
to come in and play,
away from
the burning boards.
An albatross soars,
soiling the rusting rails,
low rent paradise
even the Pony abandoned.
Water infected
with flesh-eating foulness,
sun refracting
against endless fog.
It’s 1972,
it’s eternity;
cruising by
Asbury’s rotting piers,
carousel creaking
in the endless turns
of memory.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 08.03.09)
Design Flaws
Something in the machinery
doesn’t conform
to factory specs;
re-designing
isn’t feasible,
logistics are impossible.
Something in the eyes
makes water flow
at quickest sign
of pain
or sadness,
heating/cooling
out of whack;
burning with anger,
freezing
with indifference.
Chassis that rust
interior bleeds,
engines pumping
with faulty valves,
skipping beats
in fits of passion,
racing through
the midnight darkness.
Computer brains
that crash
and re-boot
at awkward times;
a data dump
fragmented info
slipping discs
of virus logic.
The Boss misread
the original blueprints;
engineers caught
cutting corners,
projects going over-budget
with universal kick-backs.
Layers on layers,
mismanagement
in higher echelons
handed down
to middle levels
where mindless flunkies
hand pink slips
to fallen angels.
Product lives on,
mass produced mayhem
assembly lined
with inbred errors
recalled,
bit by bit
and sent back,
bandaged,
Gerry rigged
and chugging gamely.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 07.01.09)
Old
Time after time,
it all adds up;
weight upon weight,
all seeming lighter,
more fluff than substance.
Worries about nightmares
dreams and foolish ideals
fall to the sides of roads
where Spring rains
wash them away.
Pain upon pain,
aches magnify
with remembrance
of passing years,
youth stored
in forgotten muscles;
pain’s sensation
felt in methods
of dealing.
The counting
of negative integers
soon becomes positive;
colors of aged beauty
show in charcoaled lines
etched upon beloved faces.
Dirt between atrophied fingers,
smell fecundity,
feel soil shift,
fall as plant nourish,
meant for sowing,
not burrowing.
Age is not
numbers
on blackboards,
just a subtle rendering
of old
to new.
- Rose Morales
(added 07.01.09)
Bugged
Sanctity.
Life is sacred,
even for the
tiniest souls
walking the short tight rope
between Heaven and Hell,
the final verdict
of smashing hand
or careless boot
inches away
from microscopic microcosm.
Unmindful of invisible universe
teeming in a waterdrop,
go about a busy day
like marching ants
on endless hill,
bending, fetching
drum of cadence
drowning out
all other music.
How very Zen-like;
this mini denizen
so blithely strolls
across astonished fingers
in forever quest
from here to there.
- Rose Morales
(added 07.01.09)
Clarity
Obfuscate,
obliterate;
obscure the meaning
with flowery phrases
and reckless referrals
then give them a shovel.
They’ll dig it...
Partition
each participle;
dangle words
in front of their noses,
don’t give them
a scent,
show them
a fragrance.
Have a whiff...
It’s not that
I want to leave
you blind,
I’m trying to make you
polish
your lenses.
Open your eyes,
use all your senses.
Two dollars on Eureka in the sixth...
I swear I will always
tell the truth,
but I won’t
always say
what I mean.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 04.15.09)
Stoned
I am poured concrete,
fossilized excretions,
nematodes in
forgotten boxes.
That which you want
does not exist,
in my world,
water doesn’t flow,
bile is never coughed.
I lead,
by drastic change
and life saving
necessity,
a bloodless life.
So dig
if you must,
drill all you will.
I am
an archeologist’s dream,
an abandoned civilization.
You cannot find
what you seek.
I am a stone...
- Rose Morales
(added 04.15.09)
Carapace
Skittering across the kitchen floor;
a Kafka dream come true.
Was it something I’d said,
or something I’d done
in a sordid past life
to be rudely made one
of the hated majority
of carapaced vermin?
I had become
just a bug on the wall
a brown spot,
un-noticed
who sees more of humans
than any would care to know;
the careless fumblings
and drunken rumblings
of two lost souls
tumbling
across a roach slept bed.
Secrets I’ve been told
when I had been so bold
to venture near breath holes
of unrepentant sinners
never bothering with confessions.
Never knowing that I
was their cardinal listener
antennae glistening
with dust from their dinners.
I remember being told
once in another life
when exo was worn
inside vibrant skin;
“Be kind to all living things.”
Murdering one would bring
swift retribution
a final solution
of heel against fragile head;
waking in Armageddon
to find all the world
was dead.
And I, the last, lone survivor
punished for things I’d said;
never the one to dread,
now a believer.
- Rose Morales
(featured in the poetry forum 04.01.09)
Les Victoires D'enfers
Lovers tumble
in the arms of Death;
infatuated with the feel
of omnipotence.
won’t be me, won’t be me
They stand aloft
of the raging sea
teasing the pull
of the crashing waves
with a laugh on their lips
and the spray on their face
won’t be me, won’t be me
Tiptoe across the railroad bridge
the bungee nooses round their feet,
the ground so tempting
the air so sweet
the thrum of the rails
as the steel wheels meet
the edge of the grave
the beat of the heart;
the shiver of fear
in the deepest parts
of psyches unhinged
by a lust for life.
It won’t get me, it won’t get me
But time before time
and much too soon
in the black stench of night
and the light of the moon
in soft, velvet boxes
with scented pillows
buried in gardens
beneath weeping willows
They cry for you, they weep for you
Who read every tome
and still never learned
that we all will surrender
to hunger’s burn...
And that Death always wins...
All the time.
- Rose Morales
(added 04.01.09)
Spirit
The ancients knew
how spirits hide
and thrived amongst
all living things;
the rushing stream
the just threshed wheat,
the sky, the sand
and every tree.
Cognizant spirit
in knotty oak
residing far beyond
the Roman’s scope;
possessed of knowledge
wise and terrible,
chose endurance
of dull blade’s cut
and stripping bark.
Knowing he would be the one
to touch a god
and hasten his journey
back to Heaven;
and when he cried
for unearthly father
would wrap him in
his sinewy arms
whisper his secrets
and carry Him home.
A spirit doesn’t cry
but neither would he let
divinity die alone
for the unwise choices
of a god made mortal
to shoulder the sins
of unholy hoards.
He blew in the ear
of the grass, the mud,
the scratchy shroud,
the boulder, cave
the ground
from which
the man would rise
to fulfill the promise
the spirits knew
He could not deny.
A spirit doesn’t cry,
but from the sky
a kindred being
let drops of dew
fall down
unto the parched,
red clay,
in memory of
that faithful day
when everything changed,
but remained the same.
- Rose Morales
(added 04.01.09) |
