Louvre, Paris, 2011
A Sense of Place and People
Pomander Walk, NYC, pastel by Vincent Mancuso
Pomander Walk, Circa 1995
Ah, the brimful window boxes of Pomander Walk!
White Cat is high up in Number 7
among the red geraniums,
preening as the gardens plotted along the path.
To the north, 30 stories of terrace loom.
A solitary penthouse dazzles to the south.
Solid and striped petunias bloom,
a frenzy of impatiens is bursting out,
Magenta New Guinea and
lavender grows amid
marigolds and begonias beds.
Here, roses trail in cherry red,
and ivy climbs above White Cat’s head
on the stucco of Number 6, where
a Siamese king reclines indoors
with a kitten and his cat tower tricks.
Ah, Pomander Walk!
Neighbors do toast this street bouquet
with wine shared of a summer nights and
green thumbs raised in each strolling parade.
Their English hamlet of the 90s
flowers in its glory days.
* * *
Letter to Dear Fellow Gardeners
in Saudi Arabia
by Reggie Morrisey, 1994
Remember from my kitchen window,
the towering lilac
out by the paddock fence?
By the hawk's 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.
* * *
Saturday ...
St. Petersburg, Florida
by Reggie Morrisey, 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."
* * *
Picture Perfect
by Reggie Morrisey, 2001
For Vincenzo
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.
* * *
So, Breeze
by Reggie Morrisey, May 2007
So, breeze,
you wend your way around us
as her impish smile
and husky laugh,
the brush of her hurried kiss
and circle of welcoming arms.
So, breeze,
You give us pause,
like feline sentries,
temple guards,
for whom your entry is viewed
with utter calm.
So, breeze,
we heard
Suzanne is here.
Like a faint bell
and flash of Himalayan scarf.
Or wispy fingering on a harp.
Among friends,
Suzanne lingers.
She can return.
Yes, here she can stay
as we ache as one,
“Namaste.”
* * *
Ed Morrisey, Artist
On Seeing My Brother, Ed, the Brave
by Reggie Morrisey, 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.
* * *
Blue Note for a Recording Engineer
by Reggie Morrisey (Circa 1995)
Can you
“See Clearly Now?”
so far from the
“Dark Side of the Moon”?
Your “Go Now”
gone too soon?
If it hadn’t been for
“Money,”
would your
“Teenage Wasteland”
thrive?
“One Toke Over the Line,”
can you lip sync
“Survive”?
Taking hits of Mary Jane,
never settling for mundane.
Now an email in an autumn chain
whose “Sounds of Silence” clash.
Twinkling lights of consoles flash
as you pass our fading star.
The studio, the Milky Way.
Hushed.
For Frank Tomaino,
On the Move
Leaving the World
by Reggie Morrisey (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.
* * *
Stepping Out
A dream excursion
by Reggie Morrisey, 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 café.
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.
* * *
Venice - An Older Woman’s Story 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 splace 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 café.
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.
* * *
Burning Question
On the High Seas
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 damp towels
on the cabin floor,
irked if 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?
Think 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 a crew spoons haute cuisine.
One quarter tucks us into bed.
The rest just guide this
ship of lucky fools
to bingo, black jack, slots.
So clear,
the haves and have nots.
All accidents of birth,
The server and the served
Cruise this crazy planet, Earth.
* * *
Grandson vaults himself off a lake float, then does it again
Candlewood North
Connecticut, 2015
A little life.
A big splash.
"Race to the float?"
"First, better ask."
Watch a medic
on Survivor's dock.
Wipe extra photos
from the Solstice fire.
Click, click, tock, tock.
The buzz of voices
turns a synchronized row of
tanned young moms.
The line of Adirondack chairs
gleam - as seen from the seaplane.
Trees cast tall shadows
as night so gently falls.
As one by one,
the children call.
"Mommy, watch me!'
echoes across the lake.
to sighs of
"Not my circus."
"Not my monkeys."
Such is a charmed life
for the kids' sake.
* * *
Oh, Breath of Life
St. Petersburg
by Reggie Morrisey (1996)
Oh, breath of life, you take our breath away.
Tug the heart while breaking night and day.
Blushing sky, hued parable of God.
Storied mounds of clouds mask who we are.
Tropic June, a moist beatitude,
addresses tree and blossom, man and dove.
While palms hold sway, mere humans swoon with love
for arching rainbow, crystal dome above.
Yes, atmosphere, the pressures rise and fall.
Drops descend in seas upon a street.
Your chemistry is simple,
air to water, back to air.
Nearly all we crave to be complete.
Yet farther out, we circle round ourselves.
Fending limits natural life proposes.
Farther one day, three rings left behind,
we aim for space where
we can stick our noses.
* * *
Drink Blue Up
New York
by Reggie Morrisey
(1985)
Too still for leaf to fall
or heart to falter,
I look upon this lake,
your altar,
raise each chalice
in the mirror gleaming.
Drink blue up.
Too silent for a modern hum,
I chant Gregorian.
Circled by eclectic,
tagged Victorian.
all fleur-de-lis and lace,
patterns set to brace me for
the chilly winds to come.
Wait with me, swans,
while I tap the keys.
Move in from the pond.
Not one of us
captive in the freeze.
* * *
Brave@55Plus
St. Petersburg
2019
by Reggie Morrisey
The widows around me ...
Fear the same flashes of light
in the pre-dawn sky.
Hear the rumble of thunder
roiling our heads.
But they wait alone
in their narrow beds
Counting the storm to pass.
With no one warm nearby
who cares enough to ask,
“Are you alright?”
With no arms
braced like steel
To ward off the fright.
Now that’s brave.