Sunday, March 4, 2018

Tucked in a thought

The archetype of yesterday frozen on the edge of the balcony -
winter’s frosted memory dandered in the left over snow.
The sun chips away at winter’s handiwork,
thawing out the shadows.
Spring has always been a muddy thing -
churned up grit and dirt.
Spring thrives in browns and yellows
long before she puts on her make up.
Or he puts on his make up.
Spring already fading cold dark days.
Winter slips into the past passed
all those frozen dreams now thawing.
I fall in love with these moments
when the brassy noise of sunrise
promises a new day. Hope lives here.
Possibility lives here, and here I am
hoping on my balcony for the sheer bliss
when spring has sprung
and winter has become the memory.
march 3rd 2018. a.r.morgan

Saturday, January 25, 2014

the first sketch


I slip fingers between yours,
a perpendicular cross of flesh
giving Vulcan kisses to your crevices;
we take turns peaking
at the naughty punch line, revealing
secrets from our own cache
of discovery under covers
in our bed time story telling.
Curiosity knows the body.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

Composition #3



We raked away the fresh top layer until dark ooze of morphing leaves scraped the rake. We took our pitch fork and scooped then shed the composting earth into our buckets. That was the final layer to our installation. Swales and berms replacing cement, we created habitat growing again. We carried parcels of soil to the trailer and trailer to swale.  Elements in nature brought forward. My leaves left a few seasons did their work and we have some good earth deep inside.

Monday, December 31, 2012

Composition #2



I accidentally broke the canopic jar.
It went thunk then crack. A fault line
and fissure sent the milky remnants
gurgling onto my floor. My pinky toe
got wet. I was moving a box
from the closet. I forgot you were up there
then you came tumbling down,
your bulbous jar smacking the ground,
clinking
            remember.
 And I do.

The goo, sticking to my toe nail,
The aged tears, in a shallow grave,
wrapped in a shroud. Not sure what
to do with you, I hitched the loss to the post of memory,
stashed on a shelf, exposed to the elements
of my dim lit closet letting spiders spin
the epitaph. Until one day, tussled memory
met the ground.

You always were such a mess. 
a.r. morgan 

Sunday, October 7, 2012



I accidentally broke the canopic jar.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Haiku: note to self

contrary to thought,
pearled gems of missing you
lies an unwise path.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

sketchbook: Dad

In response to the question, what advice, story, words I'd give a new dad:

all those scribbled words written in a life time crinkled with my dad's name. our relationship is thus, the best gift i ever gave him was a simple framed picture of his smiling dog, Rocky, he saved from a dog beater while we were kids. My best lessons were learned from how he had us raise that dog. The other advice, Dad and daughter speak best in music passed back and forth between each other.