When it comes to writing, I'm like a skateboarder who lugs his board under his arm where ever he goes and plunks it down when he comes upon an irresistible surface.  Yes!

And, like a skateboarder whose tried to master the Basics to the Ollie, I'm humbled by the years of bruising effort it takes to get it right: to start, stop, soar, not hurt myself or others and savor the daring ride in between. The sound of wheels moving across a curve. The scratch of a pen moving across paper. It's all the same thrill.

You could say writing is purely for my pleasure. That's fair. I am having a ball. But, you've got to admit, sometimes I'm compelled to report a stunning social injustice, to share a glimpse of needless pain that begs to be ended by the collective force of sentient beings. If readers are as aghast as I am by an injustice, perhaps we can move to end it together.    

This impulse to end suffering seems to be part of our DNA: I recall my first poem published in high school when I was 14 years old and grieving about the bleak Christmas facing Christians in 1960 communist Russia. And 14 years later, after producing realms of term papers and reports for school and work, I started writing poems again about joy and sorrow, wisdom and folly. Find many poems housed on this site for your reading or listening pleasure.

Minus that first teenage effort, I've been spinning away for 42 years. You could say this blog serves as my backyard quarter-pipe ramp. Once I step out the front door, a world awaits for me to plunk down my pen. And, what a trip it is!  

Winding our way through airport check-in and security in Tampa for a recent flight to New York, we sat in the waiting area to people watch, removed from the bustle of travelers.

We see a Coppertoned, six-ish-year old girl with blonde pigtails is somersaulting at a dizzying rate. Watching her is mesmerizing. All that's missing is an Olympian roar of the crowd. Her equally tanned brother, maybe nine years old, fixates on a video game and rolls his eyes at the continual near misses of her foot in his face. Their beautiful companion, whom I presume is mom, focuses on a cell phone call, then a cell screen read, before lifting her eyes to issue a cautionary frown at the little girl's antics. But, whiz, bang, the bouncing girl is soon at it again, head-over-heels over heels over heels.

It's hard for me to raise an eyebrow in disapproval because I was like that as a child. My two daughters were like that. My granddaughter is like that. Pigtails flying, shrugging off the hard falls. Going, going ...

This threesome sat directly behind us on the plane, and miracle of miracles, the children were statues during the two-plus hour flight. At first, I cocked an ear for potential spats and waited for a kick of the seat. Nothing. When we landed, I turned to lavish praise on the children's plane manners. "Make sure you tell your dad you were very good passengers."

                                                                                      *  *  *

Between any airport waiting room and plane, I can bank on one thing happening: As the attendant at the gate murmurs, "Have a nice flight," and I step into the corridor leading to the plane, my heart quickens with excitement. We all seem purposeful with only one way to go; whether rushing toward business or adventure or trudging home, heading for a kiss or wistfully touching a cheek where we felt the last one. No matter what my  circumstance, in that moment I always picture my big brother Jim. I swallow hard. How dearly I miss him. How much he taught me about living large.

James F. Morrisey, Jr. was a pilot for Trans World Airlines for over 30 years, flying domestic and international flights, and loving every minute in what turned out to be a flawless career. He was so careful he could cover for our present-day hero, Sully. Captain Morrisey, training to fly off a naval carrier and later in years as a naval reservist, made a name for himself as a supremely safe, dependable pilot. He also taught me to love to fly.

Fourteen years my senior, Jim had left home at 14 to study to be a Christian brother. When I finally met him, he was a lanky 17 year old in black brotherhood robe, and I was perhaps three. According to family lore, I gazed up and asked him with much confusion, "Whose mother are you?"

Jim left the brotherhood, hunkering down to concentrate on college studies in our bustling home - despite all my somersaults and twirls - earning an engineering degree and heading for the prized role of pilot. When he died in 1996, he was a husband, father of four and ever-faithful big brother. He taught us to strive, take care and savor. What a gift his lessons have been.

I invite you to listen to two audio poems in which I expressed what Jim meant to me and those knew him. (Note the raptor image to the right, a painting by another dearly missed big brother whose work is featured on my site.)

To hear a poem, click an arrow in one of the following audio status bars. 

Flying Home after the Funeral

John:21

I am an American, a Caucasian woman of modest means. Many people in the world may assume I am wealthy, and I think they would be right. But what does wealth mean to me, anyway?

Though the daughter of a carpenter, I have been able to live many days with fellow Americans in peace, health and comfort, maintaining my good name for gainful employment and experiencing the promise of a fulfilling life. I have been able to count on:

• Peace living in safe communities patrolled by reassuring peacekeepers in caps and uniforms
• Health due to insurance coverage and access to medical care
• Comfort in a home I could afford
• My good name in a society that acknowledges it, who I am and who, by my actions, I appear to be

Many black and non-Caucasian Americans live in unsafe communities patrolled by police who arrive these days in Star Wars storm-trooper gear. Some residents got health coverage only in recent years and have miles to go for care. Their attempts to flee to safer areas may be stymied by racial divides, mortgage hurdles and purchases burdened by high interest rates. Non-whites of all walks of life say their good names are challenged by virtue of the color of their skin rather than the content of their characters. Such crushing reality is at best disheartening and, yes, it keeps people down.

When resentful Americans protest that no one helped them achieve what they did, my first thought is, "Really?" No parent, no grandparent, no big brother or sister; no auntie or uncle, no neighbor, no teacher, no counselor, no coach, no doctor, no pastor, no friend, no employer, no loan officer, no cop? Nobody cut you some slack, gave you a break, lent you a hand; lent you money; forgave your foolish choices; guided you; issued only a warning; said, "Yes, you can?" Really?

When all hell breaks loose in our society, we see church and community leaders rise to heartbreaking challenges and counsel dialogue and peaceful protests. Police officers daily rise above fear for their lives to see people for who they are and treat them prudently - within the law. For most 320 million Americans, such exchanges are peaceful.

What is the disconnect that prevents an officer from accurately "Reading the room" in an encounter, correctly assessing the level of threat in a situation? How have we arrived at a place where a broken tail light leads to a hail of bullets live-streamed on Facebook and then to a madman assassinating police officers? I do not know.

But what a false choice we're given by some hard-nosed commentators: Silence all protests about questionable deaths lest we be seen as ungrateful to police, or condemn all police. That choice is senseless and divisive. Why not instead approach police officers and black people you encounter to speak of our grief in the midst of this terrible dilemma?

After all people have suffered to create our society, fragile though it is today, I would rather claim the crown of brotherhood as part of my wealth than ever forsake it to silence. 

by Reggie Morrisey

Anyone who's happened upon this blog since I launched it in March 2006 knows I've rarely venture into current events; although, as a former reporter, I am and always will be a news hound.

So far, my blog hasn't prompted any cyber bullies to insult my ancestry. Let's see what the future holds as I celebrate Hillary Clinton's excellent achievement in reaching the number of delegates to be declared the presumptive candidate for president on the 2016 Democratic Party ticket. Way to go!

This milestone is doubly exciting because the woman is supremely qualified and a certifiably decent human being with a lifetime devoted to the common good and service to our country.

Yet, as I watched Ms. Clinton's eloquent June 7 speech, I had to ask myself, "How do we explain to our children and grandchildren why it took so very long to reach this historic milestone? Even mentioning to them that women didn't have the vote until 1919 would cast doubt on what children may have innocently assumed to be the certainty of equality for women.

Dare we mention to them women fought for the right to vote and faced ridicule and resistance? Physical resistance. How about explaining  the continuing battle for equal employment opportunity and equal pay - tenets of the feminism so many of its fortunate beneficiaries distain as ... unfeminine?  

We risk facing a squirm-worthy moment with our young. Worse than admitting there is no Santa, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. Do we say, "Once upon a time, there was a free country established for some people, and we aim to make it free for everyone?"

As our current, historic President Barack Obama ever advises, we must move on. Fast forward. Not cast too long a look back and risk turning us all into frozen pillars of outrage. Having endured more than his share of attacks and resistance, the president is acquainted with such forbearance.

As recently as June 10, Georgia's Republican Senator David Perdue quoted an Old Testament psalm to Christians at a conference recommending they pray the president's "Days be few." Surely those Christians, so well-versed in the OT, must know this psalm goes on to curse "His children be orphans and his wife a widow." Talk about inside jokes!  How about instead borrowing a line from an old hymn, "Grant him wisdom, grant him courage for the living of these days."

Seems we have a ways to go explaining what Mitt Romney termed, "Trickle down racism." Then, too, there is the despicable, misogynistic method of rating women. And homophobia. And xenophobia.

We have to advance beyond Hillary Clinton's major achievement to win an election. After November, let's, as they say, "Have that conversation."

Hillary Clinton brought us to this point and has paid dearly for it. Still, she envisions an America our children can be proud to inhabit. And, lucky for us, her mother taught her how to stand up to bullies.

Mine did, too.

by Reggie Morrisey

Just to wriggle my toes and think of all the shoes I wore! The baby booties to patent-leather Mary Janes, the oxfords and the tennis shoes; the furry slippers and yellow rubber boots, the flip-flops and towering heels.

And how I looked down at my hands in muff and mittens, cotton whites and soft calve gloves. Pictured my charm bracelets, bangles and rings - worn no more than three to a hand and that for only a decade. With eyes closed, I can almost feel the lengthy wool and silken scarves once wound around my neck and smell the scented bubble bath, the talc and lotions, lipstick and cologne.

And, oh, the jaunty hats that sat upon my head! From crochet baby bonnets to a dozen Easter straws. The darling velvet cloche and flapper hats that hid unfurling curls; pillbox and beret for my page boy, then longish hair; the wide-brimmed boater casting latticed shade upon my face.

I see the parade of Sunday dresses with their prickly crinolines; the sporty skirts with knife-sharp pleats; blouses, turtlenecks and preppy cardigans; the daring straight legged pants, the short, then shorter shorts; the lace-edged socks and leotards. And over all, the navy pea, the A-line, sweater and faux fur coats, the fleece-lined trench and poncho.  

I smile at the shimmer of each cocktail dress and full length gown, the magical appeal of a satin cape and evening clutch. Or frown before a mirror in my very last bikini. Then, slip on my flannel PJs or filmy baby dolls - those before I learned to sleep in sheets, reclining in my bed, thankful for so many threads to count ... instead of sheep.

by Reggie Morrisey

Greetings,
Near the end of winter long ago, some children thought they could count on a coming snow day.
Here is an audio poem about it.

Ides of March
by Reggie Morrisey
1980

Interlaken, 1976

by Reggie Morrisey

Windows swing wide open to the cool night air.
Cars triple park at Crestwood Station.
Sleigh trains go chugging down Toboggan Hill
as raccoons delight in basement hibernation.

Morning means a rush to catch a bus or train.
Prayers and incantations start cold cars as
icy paths and roads lead to a chancy game of
reaching destinations free of scars.

Brisk business for the pharmacists of Main Street.
Just hardy souls pm streets these chilly days
as colds and coughs and flu and sneezes
descend on us in must unsubtle ways.

An empty beach awaits the warming sunshine,
the children's voices and the grown up sighs
while courtyards in their gleaming crystal stillness
give pause and quiet pleasure to our eyes.

The yards disguise themselves as private skate rinks
where hockey games are played each afternoon.
And mothers doomed to bouts of cabin fever
dream of winter's end, of springtime and sweet June.