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

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.

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.

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 

I accidentally broke the canopic jar.

Haiku: note to self

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

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.