John Bliven Morin Poems

Over the stream at Lengolred
There stands a bridge of stone,
And none may cross without a loss
If he carries meat and bone.
...

Stranger, who art thou passing here
tonight? Hast thou no fear?
Come not to graveyards in the night
when the half-moon, pale and dim, gives light;
...

My neighbor, with his dog,
Woke me, scowling,
Next day;
Along the way,
...

In Brazil’s forests, shrinking fast,
Persists the peccary to the last.
But unlike man, it’s not gregarious;
It’s life grows ever more peccarious!
...

When I was just a little boy,
I heard my mother sing,
While cleaning, cooking, keeping house;
O how her voice would ring!
...

Monet liked to paint with dots
To blend his colors, lots and lots.
I wonder, when I think of Monet,
Did he ever have a honet?
...

Last was heard the nightingale,
On the crisp, cold air, a song,
Through the blizzard,
Through the blizzard,
...

A pair of snails were slowly moving
Down a grass stalk Christmas Day,
As they descended to the end,
They passed a lone slug on his way.
...

Along a long-forgotten deep-rutted road
Long-lined with courtly maples, clothed
In a Joseph’s Coat of Autumn leaves,
By the rambling shambles of a gray stone wall
...

If God should take you first,
For reasons beyond my ken,
I’d be missing half my heart
And soul and be alone again.
...