Moses

Moses

“He’d always been a good boy.”

This much everyone agreed on. His name made him stand out as a leader. Moses was the name chosen by his father, the man who realised soon after his son’s birth that he himself had never really grown up so he couldn’t be a good parent to him. He became a ghost in the young baby’s life before Moses could form a memory of Colin’s face.

Now Colin was back, and everyone instantly knew who he was. Moses was his spitting image. Even after all the years of absence and the elastic anger that stretched through their separate lives, when he walked into the police station Maisie caught her breath. She remembered why she’d chosen him as she looked as his long lean body. He was still in good shape after all these years, she thought. She wanted him to hold her tightly. He was a flicker of light in a place that felt purposefully mean in design.

Colin stood by the clerk’s desk and announced himself. His voice was deeper and steadier than she remembered it. He stood with one muscular arm leant on the desk.

“I’m the boy’s father,” he declared. “I need to see him.”

“Just a moment, sir,” the desk sergeant glanced curiously over to the bench where Maisie sat. He too had noticed that they hadn’t acknowledged each other. Masie’s fingers were digging into Cheryl’s arm, her lifelong friend from school times. Cheryl’s thoughts about Colin were obviously different to Maisie’s, she didn’t try to hide her rage. “He’s got a nerve!” Cheryl rasped; she was desperate for a cigarette but there was no way she could abandon Masie for a moment, even for nicotine.

Colin turned and followed the sergeant’s gaze.

“Masie,” he said with a casual air as if they had last spoken that morning and not fifteen years ago. “I’m going to sort all this out. Don’t worry.”

Suddenly her face closed to him. All she could think about was Moses and the streets that had been his school of troubles and confrontations.  She knew that the police had made a mistake, but they hadn’t let her see him since he was brought in sixteen hours ago. He would be 18 in two days time, she wanted him out before then. But she believed that the police didn’t know that he’d always been a good boy. They didn’t really see Moses, they merely saw a black boy on the street where another crime had been committed. They saw a closed case. His blackness was his crime to them. When they picked him up they ignored the innocent surprise on his face and vigorously threw him to the ground breaking his nose and three ribs. With coat tightened against the wind and scarf wound around his lower face he looked like the father he didn’t remember.

The one who had stabbed his sister’s rapist.

“Here’s the knife I used.”

Not Moses.

He’d always been a good boy.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017

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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

together.

Each day was the best lesson

learning was never like that

at school

life, lived

together

opens the mind

opens the heart

life, lived

apart

opens the mind

closes the heart

… for a while

until another teacher

connects on the way

through life

and the engineering

work

of love

and being

begins

on the new project

that is always planned

and that old song

is heard anew

life, lived

together

opens the mind

opens the heart

 

Without you

I’d not be here, now

so, thank you.

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017

Advertising

Complaints are frequent

when

commercial entities cross boundaries

of decency and good taste

to advertise

their wares

yet

we

oft

remain

silent

upon encountering the brass person

on the street

in our homes

in the mirror

who

does

the

same

thing

behaviour is an advert

of personality

catching the attention

and anchoring in one’s mind

honed from childhood

we become skilled

at

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

Antiques

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

until

someone gets grounded

with old wisdom

and breaks the circuit

© Marjorie H Morgan 2017