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An Autumn Road

Mark Morgan's Poetry Blog

Mark is an aspiring writer working toward a secondary education degree with an English major and a biology minor.

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All written works featured on An Autumn Road are licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

  • Let's Watch the Waves
  • An Autumn Road Poetry Readings
  • Mark Morgan

Let’s Watch the Waves

Do you suppose,
as the tern drifts upon a current’s flow,
that he resents
the maple’s power to make wind relent?

What of the tree?
While watching wings slash through clouds, does she
turn red with rage?
Do her roots beat hard at their earthen cage?

Let’s watch the waves
sojourn to the shore.  A barter is made:
seaweed for stones.
The water ignores the pier’s creaks and moans—

Perhaps our answers streak the sunset sky
where colors dance to songbirds’ choral cries.

—Mark Morgan

"She always wanted to be right. I left."

-A little story I heard while walking through the Gap.

Beast

Perhaps
it is the beast’s nature
to claw from it’s mother’s womb
and thrust shrieking venomous daggers
into the hearts and timpanic membranes
of its sickly, underfed littermates

or perhaps
mama sees him for the runt he is
stomps him into the greying mud
and digs her cloven hoof into one eye:
a loving triple batch of shit and mud and blood
smeared on her leather catsuit and stiletto heels

don’t let ‘em fool you, little one;
you’ve got all the depth perception you need

-Mark Morgan

Revelation

Everywhere I go
to find solace
in silence explodes
with your booming
presence like
hand grenades;
my ears bleed,

but

I know that
once you’re asleep,
the whole world
will awaken to
quiet kaleidoscopic thunder
dripping from
seven cracked bowls.

-Mark Morgan

Vacant Lot

anautumnroad:

The vacant lot
close to home
and ringed by pale,
                                    cracked pavement
is                    
                          covered
              with
                                           trash.
Mangy brown rats gnaw
on the bodies of their
young,

sharpen their teeth
on a scorched antique chair,

and scurry through refuse—
              arcades of
rusted car          parts
and flat               tires.

Dingy white birds
build nests
of yellowed, smeared newspapers
in the                       safety
        of              an old
              tree’s
           branches,

then
              fly
                             down
to feast
on moldy hot dogs
              and pizza
soaked in stagnant puddles.

The birds fly back screeching,
                                           scattering                      
                         white
droppings
on the overgrown grass and weeds that grip the dirty, sun-bleached asphalt—

But you know,
there’s something about
the sun-kissed
                         sparkle
                                           of
              broken
                             liquor
bottles
and discarded
                                           makeshift crack pipes
that makes me want
                                     to sway
        with the zealous
                                     undulations
             of windswept
                                     overgrowth.

-Mark Morgan

loving your choice of words. keep op the good work friend :) also, autumn is my favorite season <3

bradfordmoeller

Mine too!  Thank you so much for your kind words.  I dig your surrealist style.

"Need a seat? Use my lap."

-Designed with your comfort in mind.

Play

Life’s a game
that plays you.
Spin the wheel
or don’t.

You’ll reach
the last space
eventually.

Since you’re here,
you should try
to have fun.

Fill your car
with pink or
blue pegs
and enjoy
the ride.

-Mark Morgan

Meander

double knotted shoelaces
bound our feet in the beat up sneakers we wore
during exhausting, sweaty summer walks—
too tight, we had little room to wiggle our toes

the wince of pain and halfhearted fear on your face
when I went barefoot burned with concern:
the perils of cut feet and a promise of blisters
ballooning with clear fluid beneath the skin

the streets were rough and scorching hot, oh yes!
and the cool, shaded grass hid pointy twigs and pebbles—
but a dip in a quiet lake washed away the clinging sand
from the beach one soft yellow-blue morning

-Mark Morgan

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