Untitled (2017)

Without you

I’d not be here, now

so, thank you.

You have taught me so much,

but now you’re gone.

I’ll never forget you.

Like engineers who daily perform miraculous feats

and build bridges across

the greatest expanse of waters

connecting distant lands

we created something great once,

in the past,

and then we danced together

in the setting sun

awakening at dawn

to feast

our eyes and bodies


Each day was the best lesson

learning was never like that

at school

life, lived


opens the mind

opens the heart

life, lived


opens the mind

closes the heart

… for a while

until another teacher

connects on the way

through life

and the engineering


of love

and being


on the new project

that is always planned

and that old song

is heard anew

life, lived


opens the mind

opens the heart


Without you

I’d not be here, now

so, thank you.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017



Complaints are frequent


commercial entities cross boundaries

of decency and good taste

to advertise

their wares






upon encountering the brass person

on the street

in our homes

in the mirror






behaviour is an advert

of personality

catching the attention

and anchoring in one’s mind

honed from childhood

we become skilled


promoting aspects of character

that are appealing to others

burying less favourable actions

for later discovery

once the audience

is hooked

buyer beware.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017


CR Books 1 IMG_2798

There is nothing wrong with antiques

I say that because

I am one

I frequently hear that

even the clothes of my youth are referred to as ‘vintage’

however, it is an immutable truth that

you can not make a new antique

any more than you can make an old friend

it’s a form of sorcery

how aged relationships dilate time

like wave machines

flinging water in every direction

yet no fear of drowning is present.

In other worlds

nascent bad energy reproduces itself

flowing around constantly leaping across people points

inflicting damage on new contacts


someone gets grounded

with old wisdom

and breaks the circuit

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017


Her constructed elegance

was weak scaffolding

against her deep pain

the painted-on beauty


away more quickly

with each layer

it took years to understand

that the ersatz show of contentment

hid the decades-long struggle

within her mind

between boredom and personal disappointment

the vampire-like infusion of other people’s



happiness and love

never took hold in her

she discarded their drained bodies in her wake

frustrated that the dawn mirror

always told her the truth

as she remodelled

her decaying frame anew

without success.

©Marjorie H Morgan 2017



Where do you go to

when you eyes

are open

but closed to all around?

Where do you go to

when it’s busy

about you

but you hear not a sound?

Where do you go to

when the pressure is heavy

or the pleasure is full?


oh where,

do you go to

that you have to go alone?

I go, my dear, to my dreams –

my dreams are places

you cannot go,

things I dare or cannot show,

my dreams are long forgotten faces,

my dreams are big, full, small, empty


I go, my dear, to my dreams.

I go to my place of safety

when I’ve gone

without leaving.

I go, my dear, to my dreams.


© Marjorie H Morgan 2017

I see …

I see that man
as if I have known him
our whole lives together

such an elegant figure
so broadly talented
and rarely silent
because he is bursting with strong opinions
that have to be shared

yet in the moments
of solitude that
he steals when no-one is looking
I am privy to his deep sadness
for he brought me inside his heart
so we
the labyrinth of honeycomb shaped holes
that lined his soul

neither he nor I
could ever
fill them up
however hard we tried

I see the man,
as if he were me
so we
ceaselessly corral compassion
to fill him
(and me)

this alone
the ache
of ever-present absence
so we
are constantly love-loading
the hollow spaces
in between
everything we are

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017

The history of tickets

The history of tickets

are now all mine

they are manifested as
piles of railway stubs
covering miles,
torn cinema tickets
for the hours of dark hand-holding,
bound petrol receipts
for counties covered,
folded hotel bills
tell of city breaks,
theatre and concert programmes,
are lovingly filed
and restaurant till receipts
list anniversary locations
while plane travel vouchers
cry aloud
in a different tongue

these random pieces
of worn
card and paper records
are the pile of memories
that I keep
to remember
the way
we used to be.

The history of us.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017

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