{"id":6,"date":"2015-03-06T15:47:13","date_gmt":"2015-03-06T15:47:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/dir\/?page_id=6"},"modified":"2026-03-27T18:48:24","modified_gmt":"2026-03-27T18:48:24","slug":"poetry-reading-room","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/?page_id=6","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Reading Room"},"content":{"rendered":"

Growing up<\/strong>,\u00a0I enjoyed poetry and light verse that played on words and emotions. Reciting poems and Shakespearean\u00a0sonnets was part of life. Emily Dickinson struck me as courageous in\u00a0self-expression for her time, especially since one poem\u00a0began with,\u00a0\"I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?\"<\/p>\n

Over the years<\/strong>, it was a pleasure widening my knowledge of poets to include\u00a0epic Homer and\u00a0Dante Alighieri, Wordsworth, Byron, Keats, Shelley,\u00a0Frost, e. e. Cummings and\u00a0Rainer Maria Rilke. Then, too, 20th Century American masters of light verse, such as Ogden Nash and Dorothy Parker, amused me. Even reading Dr. Seuss' \"Happy\u00a0Birthday to You!\"\u00a0to my children was a treat.<\/p>\n

When - in the 1970s -<\/strong>\u00a0I came upon the\u00a0poems of Phyllis McGinley about life in suburban\u00a0New York, the 1961 Pulitzer Prize winner\u00a0seemed to grant me\u00a0permission to write about my\u00a0life as a woman of the Boomer generation. Unlike McGinley, I did not always rejoice in what I found to be true,\u00a0chafing at the view of women in the 1970s.\u00a0Life moved\u00a0from New York to California to Florida, from marriage to single-motherhood to remarriage and new careers along the way. <\/p>\n

Read a handful of poems here, or visit the Listening Booth to learn\u00a0about\u00a0my times.<\/p>\n

\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>

\"Louvre,<\/a>

Louvre, Paris, 2011<\/p><\/div><\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>

A Sense of Place and People<\/h4>\n

\"\"<\/a>

<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Pomander Walk, NYC, pastel by Vincent Mancuso<\/p><\/div><\/p>\n

Pomander Walk, Circa 1995<\/h4>\n

Ah, the brimful window boxes
\nof Pomander Walk!
\nWhite Cat is high up in Number 7
\namong the red geraniums,
\npreening as the gardens plotted along the path.<\/p>\n

To the north, 30 stories of terrace loom.
\nA solitary penthouse dazzles to the south.
\nSolid and striped petunias bloom,
\na frenzy of impatiens is bursting out,
\nMagenta New Guinea and
\nlavender grows amid
\nmarigolds and begonias beds.<\/p>\n

Here, roses trail in cherry red,
\nand ivy climbs above White Cat\u2019s head
\non the stucco of Number 6, where
\na Siamese king reclines indoors
\nwith a kitten and his cat tower tricks.<\/p>\n

Ah, Pomander Walk!
\nNeighbors do toast this street bouquet
\nwith wine shared of a summer night and
\ngreen thumbs raised in each strolling parade.
\nTheir English hamlet of the 90s
\nflowers in its glory days.<\/p>\n

                 *  *  *<\/h5>\n
Letter to Dear Fellow Gardeners
\nin Saudi Arabia
\nby Reggie Morrisey, 1994<\/h5>\n

Remember from my kitchen window,
\nthe towering lilac
\nout by the paddock fence?
\nBy the hawk's summer residence?
\nFacing the blossoming apple tree,
\nwhere that Clydesdale Warlock and
\nhis painted mates stand at ease?<\/p>\n

Well, the lilac split nearly in two.
\nWinter's seventeenth snow weighed in
\nmore blows than one branch could bear.
\nAnd that, not the last storm,
\nlast straw, it knew.<\/p>\n

The bounty of lilac blossoms is
\nmore precious on that downed branch,
\nbent low to greet shafts of sunlight,
\ntracing the day across the tall grass,
\nacross the slope of lawn.
\nThe farmhouse, a dream
\nof fragrance and smiles,
\nof lilacs plucked from
\na graceful, bent arm ...<\/p>\n

Lauren, the stable manager's wife, said
\nshe's waiting for fresh paint to dry
\nbefore planting her lavish garden.
\nIn the barn's every nook and cranny,
\nher grotto for a heavenly friend, and
\nflowers for Esmeralda,
\na marigold calico cat.<\/p>\n

Oh, yes. 
\nLee is blossoming for college.
\nNever here, of course. As it should be.
\nI am soothed by my view of the lilac
\nwhen next winter weighs in heavy on me.<\/p>\n

               *  *  *<\/p>\n

Picture Perfect
\nby Reggie Morrisey, 2001
\nFor Vincenzo<\/h5>\n

We of two minds could not be
\nany closer, but
\nwe always give it a try.
\nWe of artistic bent envision
\n\u2018Tante belle cose!\u201d for each
\nother\u2019s long and happy lives.<\/p>\n

Now we\u2019ve seen how far
\ncherishing gets us.
\nHow hearty laughs and joys
\nhave met us.
\nRight where we are,
\nin the arc of a Florida rainbow.<\/p>\n

You are perfect,
\nas we both know.
\nAnd I must be perfect
\nfor telling you so.
\nIt suits us fine,
\neternal Hallmark Valentines.<\/p>\n

Lingering questions we pose?
\nDid you dream me?
\nDid I dream you?
\nEver to float on Mancuso blue?
\nArtful, how we pulled it off,
\nthis \u201cus\u201d we drew.<\/p>\n

               *  *  *<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Ed Morrisey, Artist<\/p><\/div><\/p>\n

 <\/h5>\n

 
\n               *  *  *<\/p>\n

 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
On Seeing My Brother, Ed, the Brave
\nby Reggie Morrisey, August 5, 2009<\/h5>\n

The tribes will gather
\nat Sycamore Canyon.
\nElders from the north and east.
\nBraves from the south.
\nThe councils from the valleys.
\nTo set the tents
\nand sit by the fire.
\nTo circle brave Ed.
\nTo name his spirits.
\nthe bobcat, owl and hawk.
\nTo walk west
\nto the ocean\u2019s edge,
\nreflecting peace.<\/p>\n

I, Dove,
\nspeak of passage.
\nOf life\u2019s ever flowing stream.
\nOf the Brave
\nwho breathes music.
\nWhose hands
\nconceive of new things
\nunder the sun.
\nWho casts light visions.
\nWho crafts moccasins
\nfor the tiniest feet of the tribe,
\nso they can walk with him.<\/p>\n

I, Dove,
\nspeak of my spirit brother, Ed,
\nwho, like the bobcat, delves so deep,
\nsome dare not follow.
\nWho, like the wise owl,
\nhoots to the dragonfly and the whale.
\nWho, like the hawk, trails the curve
\nof the Earth and is not afraid.<\/p>\n

A band of beads
\ncircle his wide-brimmed hat.
\nAll who meet him
\ngrasp his panda bear kacinas,
\nnative dolls of chenille stems,
\nhis panda bear wayas for peace.<\/p>\n

The stars will gather
\nover Sycamore Canyon
\nand south at Malibu.
\nThe mist may blanket
\nall things known.
\nWould that you could see him, too.<\/p>\n

Blue Note for a Recording Engineer
\nby Reggie Morrisey (Circa 1995)<\/strong><\/h5>\n

Can you
\n\u201cSee Clearly Now?\u201d
\nso far from the
\n\u201cDark Side of the Moon\u201d?
\nYour \u201cGo Now\u201d
\ngone too soon?<\/p>\n

If it hadn\u2019t been for
\n\u201cMoney,\u201d
\nwould your
\n\u201cTeenage Wasteland\u201d
\nthrive?<\/p>\n

\u201cOne Toke Over the Line,\u201d
\ncan you lip sync
\n\u201cSurvive\u201d?<\/p>\n

Taking hits of Mary Jane,
\nnever settling for mundane.
\nNow an email in an autumn chain
\nwhose \u201cSounds of Silence\u201d clash.<\/p>\n

Twinkling lights of consoles flash
\nas you pass our fading star.
\nThe studio. The Milky Way.
\nHushed.<\/p>\n

For Frank Tomaino<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div>

On the Move<\/h4>\n

Leaving the World
\nby Reggie Morrisey (circa 1990)<\/h5>\n

Children, dogs and seagulls!
\nWho could be more up
\non the yuppie cruise to the Vineyard,
\nour first Friday bound for Oak Bluffs?<\/p>\n

Babies bounce in dadpacks.
\nInfants set to breast.
\nToddlers ready for \"All fall down\u201d
\nas hounds cross paws for a rest.<\/p>\n

Ferry slip to creaky dock
\nunder cotton candy clouds,
\nOver white caps tipped for jaunty sails and
\nthe straw hat, flower-brimmed crowd.<\/p>\n

Off island rules surrendered.
\nIsland rites abide.
\nPass Vineyard Haven's Five Corners,
\ndone best if one does not drive.<\/p>\n

For a glimpse of Gayhead splendor,
\nof Edgartown's prim grandeur,
\nof West Tisbury Granary hopping,
\nor Oak Bluffs' gingerbread tour.<\/p>\n

Weekends slide toward dock lines,
\npacking a ferry or barge.
\nA subdued crowd on the mainland run,
\nstands consoled under seafaring stars.<\/p>\n

Stepping Out 
\nA dream excursion
\nby Reggie Morrisey, 1996<\/h5>\n

Crossing shadows and cobble as
\ncenturies of former lovers,
\nto the ramparts of Montelimar,
\nwe hug vin, pain and fromage
\npast Inspector Concierge.<\/p>\n

On a terrace in the twilight,
\nwe breathe in the nectar of summer,
\nhear mothers calling children,
\ntoasted children straggling home.<\/p>\n

Miles to go before Paris,
\nflamb\u00e9 in our feast of France.
\nWe blow kisses to beckon nightfall,
\nto bed in a moonlit trance.<\/p>\n

Crossing fields of lavender and sunflowers,
\nwe shrug off thunder showers.<\/p>\n

We yield a tour day to a sidewalk caf\u00e9.
\nMemory preserves a flutter of lace.<\/p>\n

Farmer aristocrats, vineyard bronzed,
\npocket our francs in a marketplace.<\/p>\n

Arm-in-arm to Paris,
\nshedding all such country quiet.
\nBeguiled by a city where bistros await,
\nwe twirl up the tower,
\nscanning lights upon lights.
\nAnchored at heart,
\nas the Seine River flows,
\nto revel in love's awesome depths,
\nfearless heights.<\/p>\n

Venice - An Older Woman\u2019s Story 2003<\/strong><\/p>\n

A mermaid climbs the sea wall, dabbing lagoon perfume.
\nVenus descends to bask in her beauty.<\/p>\n

The light above Venice is her crown.
\nAs doves coo evensong and swell in San Marco\u2019s square,
\nthe sky in the cap of the cathedral is a scroll of her golden hair.<\/p>\n

We see the ghostly fleet of the Doge returned with its spoils of war,
\nfour Byzantine horses pinned by this duomo\u2019s door.<\/p>\n

The music of Vivaldi springs in her narrow streets.
\nLike his orchestra of orphan girls, cloistered behind a screen,
\nVenice is mysterious, more beautiful, sight unseen.<\/p>\n

We approach the glass blower\u2019s gate and hear her bridge of sighs
\nin the uproar of the furnace and imagined, sad goodbyes.<\/p>\n

Gondola, accelerato and traghetto vie splace on her Grand Canal.
\nA female city, cloaked in romance history, swoons for the tenor\u2019s passionate woe.
\nYet steps back from relentless waves lapping at her toe.<\/p>\n

Piazza, arcade, fetching human voices. Nary a humming motorcar.
\nFrowning women fling open windows, her silent police, her vigilant spies.
\nThey could sound the alarm, could bid us to hide.<\/p>\n

From Attila the Hun to the cannons of Napoleon.
\nThe Lombard invasion, the fall of Milan.
\nFrom the fourth Crusade to Pope Hadrian,
\nVenice whirled back from the battles of man.<\/p>\n

Once abandoned the buoys.
\nHid channel markers. Her maze of shoals impassable.
\nVenice the obscure, impenetrable.<\/p>\n

We sip espresso at a bustling caf\u00e9.
\nTaste a feast from the sea when our night arrives.
\nDrift in sleep as church bells peal and Casanovas lie.
\nDream of powdered wig, silk gown and veil.
\nOf a peacock mask for the Carnavale.
\nOf a woman who has survived.<\/p>\n

                *  *  *<\/p>\n

Burning Question
\nOn the High Seas
\nby Reggie Morrisey, 2009<\/h5>\n

What must they think of us?
\nAs we sashay on new sea legs
\nfrom the Grand Dining Room,
\ntummies full
\nuntil the midnight buffet.<\/p>\n

As we drop damp towels
\non the cabin floor,
\nirked if there are
\nno chocolates on the bed.<\/p>\n

As we drift from the Spa,
\nbodies buffed with seaweed,
\nbasted with frangipani oil,
\naging still,
\nand they on a half-day shift.<\/p>\n

As we leave no tip on the bar.
\nAs we drown in drinks by the pool.
\nWhat must they think of us?
\nThink of each pampered dude and dame?
\nAre they just glad we came?<\/p>\n

If our global village were
\nbut 100 strong,
\nseven would have what we have.
\nOnboard,
\none-half a crew spoons haute cuisine.
\nOne quarter tucks us into bed.
\nThe rest just guide this
\nship of lucky fools
\nto bingo, black jack, slots.
\nSo clear,
\nthe haves and have nots.<\/p>\n

All accidents of birth,
\nThe server and the served
\nCruise this crazy planet, Earth.<\/p>\n

               *  *  *<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Grandson vaults himself off a lake float, then does it again<\/p><\/div><\/p>\n

 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n
 <\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Candlewood North
\nConnecticut,  2015<\/h5>\n

A little life.
\nA big splash.
\n\"Race to the float?\"
\n\"First, better ask.\"<\/p>\n

Watch a medic
\non Survivor's dock.
\nWipe extra photos
\nof the Solstice fire.<\/p>\n

Click, click, tock, tock.<\/p>\n

The buzz of voices
\nturns a synchronized row of
\ntanned young moms.
\nTheir line of Adirondack chairs
\ngleam - as seen from the seaplane.<\/p>\n

Trees cast tall shadows
\nas night so gently falls.
\nAs one by one,
\nthe children call.<\/p>\n

\"Mommy, watch me!'
\nechoes across the lake.<\/p>\n

to sighs of<\/p>\n

\"Not my circus.\"
\n\"Not my monkeys.\"<\/p>\n

Such a charmed life
\nfor the kids' sake.<\/p>\n

            *  *  *<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Growing up,\u00a0I enjoyed poetry and light verse that played on words and emotions. Reciting poems and Shakespearean\u00a0sonnets was part of life. Emily Dickinson struck me as courageous in\u00a0self-expression for her time, especially since one poem\u00a0began with,\u00a0“I’m nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody, too?” Over the years, it was a pleasure widening my knowledge of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":2,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"templates\/template-full.php","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-6","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","post"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8695,"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6\/revisions\/8695"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.reggiemorrisey.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}