24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
With an ear for poetry and a heart for readers, T. Haven Morse uses poetry as a vehicle for forging connections. And, as a side note, she loves to spend hours wandering in the woods of her 18-acre farmstead in the forest! "Not all those who wander are lost." - Tolkien
Losing Faith in real women,
Inmates seeking pen pals,
No Faith in real women learning to live.
Bitch fought me for years,
lead family to homelessness,
Single black female in search of marriage.
Nerdy city guy,
nice guy tired of online dating,
I want to get married, Dear God in Texas.
Buddies, friends, bromance,
I’m not looking for my number one,
I’m looking for my only one, Love like a rose.
(Found poem from searching “Faith” in Houston, TX Craigslist personals.)
Sun doesn’t set,
Moon doesn’t rise,
Days are endless for Rose.
Floating among stars,
Observant always,
Placid smile, gaze wanders.
Center of the universe,
Mistress of eternity,
Shining bright in the Heavens.
Who or what she is,
No one quite knows,
Not even she, The Eternal Rose.
(Art: “Blossoming” by Sasha Yoss)
In a hospital waiting room, they meet.
A prisoner of war and a plastic surgeon.
Pale in color and demeanor, the POW. Bronzed and tan, is the rich, successful doctor.
Sterile is the air between them, ammonia-tinged and frighteningly still.
Though the room is packed with people, there is no one else these two women can see. They’ve both overcome such overwhelming odds but when given the chance, neither has much to say. Two sisters, so close via blood, yet in life, so far away.
inhale, exhale, smell: citrus, vanilla mixed with dried sweat and someone’s halitosis
inhale, exhale, see: overwhelming colors, brand names, labels wanting me to buy them
inhale, exhale, feel: confined in such a huge place, alone yet surrounded, free in a trap
inhale, exhale, be: nothing more, nothing less, complete the task, exit and be free
Pale and slightly sticky
is the ground beneath my feet.
Creatures swarm around me,
with whom I barely relate.
There is a cold season, and
a warmer one, smells like springtime.
No, they’re not seasons but
rather sectors or states.
The society, here, works
within a somewhat familiar hierarchy.
With servers and the served,
prejudices ruling the day.
As I check out, I glance,
once more, at this consuming universe.
Despite my loathing, I’ll be back
for more groceries.
I’m back!
But under a new pen name (The Phrase Florist/Jody T. Morse in 2016, The Bountiful Balcony Poet/T. Haven Morse in 2017) and going for a full this year (halfied it last year).
Revved up and ready to write. Huge thanks and love to Caitlin and Jans! 🙂
