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National Poetry Month Feature: M.R. Morrison

Updated: Dec 19, 2021

Optical migration I found her hanging from a copper coil in the branches of a tree above a puddle of velvety sage green moss suspended like a crystal in a sunbeam refracting, the knowing old southern soil in her eyes. I wove her into a tapestry of syllables in warm earth tones. I found him like a flock of plastic bags, rattling from the skeletal branches of tree limbs, in the wind of collective thoughts. It’s always the harmless things that hurt most circumstance, a child holding a mirror to the world. I made him the footsteps of the Sun on the silver screen of crackling static and gray. Most people looking for recreation come with tears in their eyes. Subtle complexities of stubborn growth, the image eclipsed by the word, before the invention of perspective we were merely craftsmen.

Single Cell Coagulating in our Bodily Belief Systems What is it for me to be at the long beginning of a new life, when I know nothing of the old. This language is older than those fixtures, a stigma of neon ideologies from which florescent light falls on our upturned faces. Classified rituals of uselessness, contain our moments of immortality. Like Orion hanging upside down at the zenith of the sky, sometimes I go to the river and lay upside down with my hair in the flow. How else do we know water, unless it is contained? There like a red-blood cell in the veins of God I cling to the banks, as if I have faith, as if I have free will, as if I have that which slips through my flushed fingers each time they begin to close around it.


I sit across from myself We sit facing each other and relax our shoulders, it’s been a long time since We put down this world. She sat across from herself the crescent moon of the coffee stain was the closed captions for a conversation coming from a booth to the left of me. We breathe a deep breath that rattles our soul. Sometimes, she sleeps deep in the corner recesses of a room, (when) I’ve been bullfighting at midnight waking covered in a cold sweat, that has risen from my pores, like a roaring crowd. In those dark moments before the dawn, when the sun has overslept, I catch her watching friends become cautionary tales. It is always hard to tell if she has tears in her eyes, their color is moist and hard to define, like the sea. We sit in diners, across from one another, to be alone. To separate ourselves, and the stories we’ve lived. Every once in a while, an old memory stumbles in, sliding into a booth near by placing its forehead on the table its content spreading out like syrup. brown, thick, sticky droplets on top of yesterday morning’s coffee marks. And when I think she isn’t looking, I turn to see her facing me, and she doesn’t let me take the easy way out. From that corner, she holds me in her gaze, firmly, with a calm sternness. And we merge, like we were never two. Eggshell, driftwood, and bone With wide feet I walk on a fine line of eggshell white. Unsurprised when the vastness returns my stare. These words are like driftwood, scattered, I arrange them to suit you and read them like bones. Like any mystery it says as much about the seer as it does the seen. Carried on the longing tides of the human heart and reflected on the shards of the moon drifting in Psyche’s haunted estuaries.

Same Hell, different devils Same Hell different devils some lurk in the shadows others hide in the light. I see mine in hallway corners lingering, watching me as I pass into the next room. Its eyes are riptides that drag me out to a sea of lost memories where I succumb to Hercule’s folly and chop away at the faces each being replaced two fold. I (had to) relocate two spiders today, or the same one twice. He looked smaller, the second time. We were too big to coexist in the same space. Even with ten foot ceilings. They were those people, the ambassadors of and for the human race #American the way they told stories made you certain they were writing the footnotes to their future biographies. To master death, you must give up life.

M.R. Morrison is a healer. Her work in poetry, visual, and intuitive arts transcends imperceptible boundaries to breathe life into that which we didn't know we could see. Once touched by this work, you can never unsee it's revelations. Find her making art, teaching yoga, and perceiving in the Harrisburg Area. Enter a portal to learn more at:

We Doubt The Call Even As We Answer It by M.R. Morrison published by Lost Alphabet IG: @lavieenmeghanrose @lostalphabet

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