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Love Comes
First
Picture Perfect
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 2001
We of two minds could not be
Any closer, but
We always give it a try.
We of artistic bent envision
‘Tante belle cose!” for each
Other’s long and happy lives.
Now we’ve seen how far
Cherishing gets us.
How hearty laughs and joys
Have met us.
Right where we are,
In the arc of a Florida rainbow.
You are perfect,
As we both know.
And I must be perfect
For telling you so.
It suits us fine,
Eternal Hallmark valentines.
Lingering questions we pose?
Did you dream me?
Did I dream you?
Ever to float on Mancuso blue?
Artful, how we pulled it off,
This “us” we drew.
My husband,
Vincent Mancuso, in his
downtown studio
in 2003
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In memory of artist, Ed Morrisey
January 30, 1939 - September 4, 2009
On
Seeing My Brother, Ed, the Brave
by
Reggie Morrisey (C) August 5, 2009
The tribes will gather
At Sycamore Canyon.
Elders from the north and east,
Braves from the south,
The councils from the valleys.
To set the tents
And sit by the fire,
To circle brave Ed,
To name his spirits,
The bobcat, owl and hawk.
To walk west to the ocean’s edge,
Reflecting peace.
I, Dove,
Speak of passage,
Of life’s ever flowing stream,
Of the Brave who breathes music,
Whose hands conceive of new things
Under the sun.
Who casts light visions,
Who crafts moccasins
For the tiniest feet of the tribe,
So they can walk with him.
I, Dove,
Speak of my spirit brother, Ed,
Who, like the bobcat, delves so deep,
Some dare not follow.
Who, like the wise owl,
Hoots to the dragonfly and the whale.
Who, like the hawk, trails the curve
Of the Earth
And is not afraid.
A band of beads
Circle his wide-brimmed hat.
All who meet him
Grasp his panda bear kacinas,
Native dolls of chenille stems,
His panda bear wayas for peace.
The stars will gather
Over Sycamore Canyon
And south at Malibu.
The mist may blanket all things known.
Would that you could see him, too.
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Life
Challengers Approaching Dusk
by Reggie Morrisey (c) 1985
Their rowboat bounds for blindly glistening waves
Lurching from the shore,
They bicker and spin
Into the sun's path
Till at last, they are lost to my sight,
Like the first astronauts
Gone behind the moon.
Speed
boats,
Bellowing motors and dudes,
Now leeward, starboard
Bow-to-stern loom.
Hooting teen seamen guzzle
A six pack or two,
Hot doggin it for dockside pals.
Like
mindless comets
They spear a wake.
Asteroids,
Ready to forsake the wheel.
All I hear are engines and squeals
As the mad dash into the sun.
Given the turbulent liquid space,
The day's end voyage
Now seems a mistake.
Re-entry cannot come too soon
For my daring explorers,
My two young daughters.
"This is mission control!
Come in, please.
Tell me what you saw.
Bring samples
From the far off shore.
Row here victorious
And nonchalant...”
The sun drops to silhouette
Their boat into view.
At peace in a cove
Riotous with crickets,
Bent over lilies
Bundled up for the night,
The girls are all right.
My eyes pull their oars hard,
Will them to this shore,
Passed macho vessels,
Intoxicated with power.
As they dart across the lawn
And toss down the oars,
I wonder
Who wills the wild boys home
At this bewitching hour.
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Shine
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 2002
A crescent moon sheds enough light
to write this poem.
Casting back upon your joyous lot,
to a bride with strapping son,
drawn to the groom and Victorian altar.
To chapel beams spread high overhead.
Beams through peaked window panes,
and on the faces of all who came.
The white robed officiant
bestows her wisdom in life’s roses and thorns,
in having amidst the gentlest holding,
in souls eternally unfolding
in a nano-second world.
Who would have thought a dot com
delivers butterflies to bless skies above!
Once out in the open air,
We peal back paper cocoons,
setting free the wakening monarchs.
One takes a shine
to the flower on Joel’s lapel.
The photos will show
he wore it well
until it flew away.
Like the wedding toasts on our lips.
Hailing a new sister.
Joshing a towering baby brother.
Thrilled to be a friend.
Overlooking a Dunedin marina,
we blow bubbles above the arch of
orchids and wedding feast as
your minutes flew away.
One took a shine to my mind.
This motley “us” of yours,
like pearly bubbles
arrayed as beams of sun,
clinking glasses to coax
another gentle kiss.
May you wear this shimmering day well
in your daring wedding bliss.
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Travel Log
Mother Mine
Memory
Preserves Canaan Valley, West Virginia
by
Reggie Morrisey (1980)
I heard a benign soliloquy
From assertive Mother Earth
As busy waters scrubbed against
A washboard ripple of Appalachian stone.
Her utterances never spent,
She persisted with gravity through
Sun-flecked woods alone,
Scouring a glacial slope
In puddles, twists and turns.
Bolder leaves fell in with her,
Gliding to a stop at rocky pools.
Hemlocks leaned as I did,
Callow fellows caught and loath to stray.
Winds nudged to hint of a larger world
Yet nothing rose above her liquid voice.
An older woman,
Assertive Mother Earth
Bent with grace to her everyday chores.
A domestic in easy discourse.
And we, seedlings of this rich estate,
Who would nestle for a last chill nap,
Daydreamed upon a moss velvet lap,
and lingered.
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Sunday Morning
by Reggie
Morrisey (C) 1986
Mohave Vatican!
Gothic high!
In down so warmed
By a hot pink sunrise.
A Gregorian owl stops at matin's tide.
His chant swallowed whole by a blushing sky.
Sandstone cathedrals tower overhead.
Downed boulders crowd these weeping walls.
Bishop, I heard, has trembled with quakes.
With gravity, your faithful rise and fall.
Rainbow pebbles in memoriam spread
Earth's old stained-glass soliloquy
for redeemers of clues and mysteries.
Kneeling,
I gather a share of these
stone gospels of desert geology,
retrieving my estimable proof.
A basilica needs no roof.
Stained Glass Soliloquy 1985
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Long-stemmed Seattle
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 2008
Before the big conference
6 a.m. May 9, 2005
Like long-stemmed Seattle,
An iris and tulips preen in a vase on the hotel sill.
As skyscrapers come Monday alive,
Sleepy and sleepless Sunday now recedes,
Wispy as morning's high tower fog.
Burly gulls flee en masse to Eliot Bay,
To sweep the rail of the ferry from Bainbridge Island.
Floating over the domed courthouse at 29 stories,
A smokestack vies with clouds to mask Rainier.
Heard you had to be there when the blue arrives.
The purple iris unfurls its friendship on the window sill.
A peach tulip keens to the east.
One petal hangs on still
Despite Pike Market's Mother's Day bruising.
Like a child in hand
Straggling to the Space Needle,
It is quirky and sweet.
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Leaving the World
by Reggie Morrisey (C) (circa 1990)
Children, dogs and seagulls
Who could be more up?
On the yuppie cruise to the Vineyard,
Our first Friday bound for Oak Bluffs?
Babies bounce in dadpacks
Infants set to breast.
Toddlers ready for "All fall down”
As hounds cross paws for a rest.
Ferry slip to creaky dock
under cotton candy clouds,
Over white caps tipped
for jaunty sails and
The straw hat, flower-brimmed crowd.
Off island rules surrendered.
Island rites abide.
Pass Vineyard Haven's Five Corners,
Done best if one does not drive.
For a glimpse of Gayhead splendor,
Of Edgartown's prim grandeur,
Of West Tisbury Granary hopping,
Or Oak Bluffs' gingerbread tour.
Weekends slide toward dock lines,
Packing a ferry or barge,
A subdued crowd on the mainland run,
Stands consoled under seafaring stars.
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Venice - An Older Woman’s Story
by Reggie Morrisey 2003
A mermaid climbs the sea wall,
dabbing lagoon perfume.
Venus descends to bask in her beauty.
* * *
The light above Venice is her crown.
As doves coo evensong and
swell in San Marco’s square,
the sky in the cap of the cathedral
is a scroll of her golden hair.
We see the ghostly fleet of the Doge
returned with its spoils of war,
four Byzantine horses
pinned by this duomo’s door.
The music of Vivaldi
springs in her narrow streets.
Like his orchestra of orphan girls,
cloistered behind a screen,
Venice is mysterious,
more beautiful, sight unseen.
We approach the glass blower’s gate
and hear her bridge of sighs
in the uproar of the furnace and
imagined, sad goodbyes.
Gondola, accelerato and traghetto
vie for a place on her Grand Canal.
A female city cloaked in romance history,
swoons for the tenor’s passionate woe.
Yet steps back from relentless waves
lapping at her toe.
Piazza, arcade, fetching
human voices.
Nary a humming motorcar.
Frowning women fling open windows,
her silent police, her vigilant spies.
They could sound the alarm,
could bid us to hide.
* * *
From Attila the Hun to
the cannons of Napoleon.
The Lombard invasion,
the fall of Milan.
From the fourth Crusade
to Pope Hadrian,
Venice whirled back
from the battles of man.
Once abandoned the buoys.
Hid channel markers.
Her maze of shoals impassable.
Venice the obscure, impenetrable.
* * *
We sip espresso at a bustling cafe.
Taste a feast from the sea
when our night arrives.
Drift in sleep as church bells peal
and Casanovas lie.
Dream of powdered wig, silk gown and veil.
Of a peacock mask for the Carnavale.
Of a woman who has survived.
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Y
E
S
!
She,
Nodding to
The wind's contour,
Climbs aboard a wood
sea horse
Till bare feet slip in stirrups,
Planted firm to rein and glide.
Bracing for her wildest turn, her shoulders bear
The shifting weight, hold firm the urge to come about,
With atom baiting atom. Astride Gulf surf,
At war with air,
Tugging reins, she gains control. Force for force,
Like common quarks, so fiercely now they complement,
At one with air, with plastic sail,
All leaning back, she, air and sail,
Check mark on blue horizon.
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 1996
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Rising
– Cedar Key
By Reggie
Morrisey (C) 2009
Cedar Key is the coast of nature.
Yes, nature prevails.
The tide rolls out
Where mullets fly and
Oysters rise in a
Field of puffy bar.
A full-moon spring-tide takes
More than a foot of water down.
They say it takes an elephant gun
To down a braying air boat
As it thunders by.
Even black mangroves spring up here.
Like olive trees with their green berets.
Like Rosewood blacks who fled
The redneck terror of the Roaring Twenties.
Cedar Key plays home to migrant snowbirds.
Some in condos – with binoculars.
Some high stepping through stressed bars.
They dare not eat the oysters
For the poison rising up
Inside the earthen shells.
To live and die by spring tides.
Slowly, the bar fades
And beds are made
As water rises.
Slowly, the church bell tolls,
Warn as the creaky dock
Where big boats wait their day.
As hogs rev their motors
Outside Annie’s Café,
Soon to cruise.
We ready our canoes.
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At a Women in the Arts
Florida event, Reggie (center) is pictured with flutist Donna Wissinger and watercolorist Jean Grasdorf.
View from Florida
Saturday...
St. Petersburg, Florida
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 1997
“Morning!"
"Morning."
Or a silent smile
On the winding paths of North Shore Park.
A pool crowd roars at butterfly trials
As flocks of cyclists weave and dart.
"Morning!"
"Morning."
Or a jogger's huff
Where sea gulls,
Egrets, and small planes rise.
Where pelicans brood over Coffee Pot
And bank like DC9's.
"Morning!"
"Good Day."
"Your baby came!"
As newborn palms on the sandy beach.
As Dalmatians, retrievers, and terriers strain
Against the longest leash.
Dolphins rule a swirling school.
All high-wire abacus chirp and spy.
Our soaring spirits mount the sky
On shafts of sun lighting Tampa Bay.
Pass the cast of a net,
The snap of a rod,
Kites flung aloft over rolling blades.
Palatial Vinoy and marina in sight,
Museums and Pier mere moments away.
Pass still, benched locals whose sighs observe,
"Same old, same old Saint Petersburg."
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Wound
Management Division
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 1997
A training power breakfast
At a Florida corporate pond.
Long-billed grunt shadows long-billed boss
To high-step, low-step, stop, and dig deep
Into wet soil for the wriggling spoils of peace.
An ibis-mirror ripples,
The quill - a fountain pump.
A sparrow plucks a feather,
Twill do for a lofty nest.
I hear no meter running,
No squawking, pecking test.
As three white ducks pad out from the grass.
I simply had not thought to ask,
Why they cruise alone.
Eyes averted, business-style,
Not one creature turns to peep,
“The alligator is home.”
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Farm House
Observations
The Farm House,
Town of Southeast, NY
McHenry’s at
the Farm
by
Reggie Morrisey (1995)
McHenry's at the farm.
His foot upon a rocky path,
He dare not travel long.
His wife, four score and ten,
Not but a week gone.
His wife in eternal calm,
And he, bundled,
light as a child,
To pose in the setting sun
With the gelding "Easy."
McHenry this Sabbath
Steered to the farm
By his daughter,
A bride of no less than Christ.
A Dominican rabbi
For no less than life,
Pulling his file marked,
"Life, minus wife,
When I was last century's child."
A shaky gait he now recalls,
A dangerous shuffle, he'll admit
As oh so gingerly, he shifts,
Inching, inching
To the paddock fence
To warm in a fog of a horse's breath
And pat its nuzzling head.
To glance at the rise of brush
He had climbed,
To shake off his
Bone-breaking dread.
One blue-veined hand
On a spindly fence,
One far-off smile in a camera's lens,
One shadow cast in confidence,
This wistful trinity.
McHenry, his wife not with him still,
Graced with the moment,
Reason and will,
This McHenry choosing to be.
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Letter to Dear
Fellow Gardeners
in Saudi Arabia
by
Reggie Morrisey (C) 1994
Remember from my kitchen window,
the towering lilac out by the paddock fence?
By the hawks' summer residence?
Facing
the blossoming apple tree,
where that Clydesdale Warlock and
his painted mates stand at ease?
Well, the lilac split nearly in two.
Winter's seventeenth snow weighed in
more blows than one branch could bear.
And
that, not the last storm,
last straw, it knew.
The bounty of lilac blossoms is
more precious on that downed branch,
bent low to greet shafts of sunlight,
tracing the day across the tall grass,
across the slope of lawn.
The farmhouse, a dream of fragrance and smiles,
of
lilacs plucked from a graceful, bent arm.
* * *
Lauren, the stable manager's wife, said
she's waiting for fresh paint to dry
before planting her lavish garden.
In the barn's every nook and cranny,
her grotto for a heavenly friend, and
flowers for Esmeralda,
a marigold calico cat.
* * *
Oh, yes, Lee is blossoming for college.
Never here, of course...as it should be.
I am soothed by my view of the lilac
when next winter weighs in heavy on me.
Deep Shadows on the
Path
The
Nature of Our Pain
by
Reggie Morrisey (C) 1994
This house is shaken to the core.
Our cries ring the bimulous clouds
And moon-lit sky,
Cross the pasture and tall grass,
Where mole and field mouse dance.
To the treetops and barn rafters,
Where August life goes on.
The news travels fast:
That thud,
The night's sickening thud
Of tire over cat,
Black cat,
Is Othello,
Splayed on the road for all to see.
We shutter to ponder a conspiracy
Of field mice and mole,
Barn rat, squirrel, swallow,
Chimney sweep and munk,
Luring him to a violent end,
To the pounce of a racing car.
Now he leaves us in a gift box,
A stiff,
battered doll
that won't fit its grave destiny.
Fifty feet away
At the steps to the porch,
is a former field mouse,
Dropped off,
Like so many trophies
Of the premier hunter,
To meet in eternity.
Othello,
Still a notation
In Jen's first checkbook
For his trip to the vet
Where he sat,
Luxurious, mellow,
Pink lips, green eyes and purr.
A case of ... dandruff his only woe.
Our baby stalker of foil balls
And fat paper rolls,
Clawing holes in paper rolls.
Months training in his safe house
Till his first killing season,
Hapless bird, cornered mouse.
Stuck inside all day,
Rushing to gulp some food,
To meep and beep open the door.
We ache to see him chasing the moon,
Rolling on a bimulous cloud,
Glistening with stardust,
Licking heavenly brother cats
And crying out loud.
In the morning in our doleful pet cemetery,
I recite the graveside poem
By Christopher Smart, 1763,
About the cat, Jeoffrey,
Who taught him
his century's mystery
... electricity.
The other cats pad in,
circle and sniff the wild flower bouquet.
They nudge a makeshift cross,
House bound Willow will stay longest,
Having lost the butt of her daily tiff.
Striped Tyler waits in the tall grass.
He sniffs the slightest breeze,
Listening to humans grieve,
To the age old silence of nature,
And too-oft read poetry.
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Between
Heaven and Earth
by
Reggie Morrisey (C) 2001 (Presented
with a print of a Vincent Mancuso painting
to the firemen of Rescue One, NYC,
who lost 11 brothers on September 11,2001.
Presented to Reverend Andrea Raynor,
who ministered at Ground Zero
through the nights of 2002
among the hard hats and broken hearts)
May grave images recede and
peace cup
each ashen face, hid
by scuffed and battered helmet.
Silence chattering alarms for fallen brothers.
Displace our horror with hero worship.
The sun set, taking those spirits with it.
"Amazing Grace" we piped for every one.
Between Heaven and Earth,
Let peaceful hearts hold tender
Each father, husband, brother and son.
Beyond Belief
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 1997
No one saw us board the plane,
Snap the buckle of the seat belt,
And rush to your side.
Tears blur eyes.
No one saw two angels
Steal away with your son, James.
Leave the world a Manet painting
Of the pale, broken Christ.
But each held him by an arm,
Lifted up at his frail sides,
Though struck down in spirit
By his pained and too-brief life.
They got our James the hell out.
No more hell.
No more dark night.
I'd be guessing where they took him.
My strongest hunch is Heaven.
For surely God loves James.
They have told us ... God is love.
And Christ knows what James had suffered.
He was with him every moment.
It was Christ who called the angels.
Led him out beyond our sight.
Hard to see us as we wrestle
With our anger and despair.
It appears I tap a keyboard.
A clenched fist stabs at thin air.
Who to rail at is a muddle?
Where to land a stunning blow?
This dread enemy we face,
Letting dear James go.
Poem first written for the family of
a 23-year old man,
who lost his battle with cancer,
and yet again for two others
who followed that terrible path.
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Dream
Stepping Out
Dream excursion
by Reggie Morrisey (C) 1996
Crossing
Shadows and cobble as
Centuries of former lovers,
To the ramparts of Montelimar,
We hug vin, pain and fromage
Past
Inspector Concierge.
On a terrace in the twilight,
We breathe in the nectar of summer,
Hear mothers
calling children,
Toasted children straggling
home.
Miles to go before Paris,
Flambé in our
feast of France.
We blow kisses to beckon
nightfall,
To bed in a moonlit trance.
Crossing fields of lavender and
sunflowers,
We shrug off thunder showers.
We yield a tour day to a sidewalk cafe.
Memory
preserves a flutter of lace.
Farmer aristocrats, vineyard bronzed,
Pocket
our francs in a marketplace.
Arm-in-arm to Paris,
Shedding
all such country quiet.
Beguiled by a city where bistros await,
We
twirl up the tower,
Scanning lights upon lights.
Anchored at heart,
As the
Seine River flows,
To revel in love's awesome depths,
Fearless
heights.
Dream come true: 2011 - Paris
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Mystifying
Burning
Question
by Reggie Morrisey © 2009
What must they think of us?
As we sashay on new sea legs
From the grand dining room,
Tummies full
Until the midnight buffet.
As we drop our damp towels
On the stateroom floor,
Irked there are no chocolates on the bed.
As we drift from the spa,
Bodies buffed with seaweed,
Basted with frangipani oil,
Aging still.
And they on a half-day shift.
As we leave no tip on the bar.
As we drown in drinks by the pool.
What must they think of us?
Of each pampered dude and dame?
Are they just glad we came?
If our global village were
But 100 strong,
Seven would have what we have.
Onboard,
One-half spoon out haute cuisine.
One quarter tuck us into bed.
The rest just guide this ship of lucky fools
To bingo, black jack, slots.
So clear,
The haves and have nots.
On the prowl for snake eyes
Among the Third World staff.
Is that contempt
Beneath their smiles?
Yet, envy does not seem their style.
All accidents of birth
The server and the served
Cruise this crazy planet, Earth.
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But,
Who's Counting?
by Reggie Morrisey © 2010
Oh, just how much you weigh
How long you are
The ounces that you downed from
a baby food jar
When you crawled
And when you stood and walked
How many months it was before you talked
What percentile you had reached in height
The letters and the numbers you can write
The goal you score,
Your shin guards inching up
How many times you nab a soccer cup
When it was your training wheels came off
The times you fell and times you got back up
What grades you make
School stickers on the car
Saying just how proud your parents are
The SATs,
The letters scored,
The scholarship.
The trophies won,
The figure listed on
your student loan
Degrees hung ...
Draped with tassels at your home
The job you nail right out of school
Your title and your office cube
The spouse,
The kids,
The house,
The cars you got
The clubs,
The cleats,
The best game that you shot
The yards you swim
The miles you bike
The laps around the track
The i-Pod files
That keep you coming back
The cash you saved,
Vacation days,
The countries that you toured
The friends that came and went.
Fiscal budgets that you spent
The plaques you stacked
upon the rolling cart.
The blood work,
And the specialists,
The pills you pop,
The days still left.
Filled with deep regret or no regret
The counting never stops
Till you don't count,
Though debt is paid
As it is mounting up
Your movie slowly fades to black
Unless you dream of coming back.
Of Heaven
And of Hell to pay,
Of freezing for another day.
In the dash between your birthday
And your death.
Will it be said
You lived
While you had breath?
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