Morgan Michaels Poems

Even your oldest, most workable delusion
Will never be true-
It is, however, your oldest, most workable delusion
It made you rich-
...

The gods abandon him that shirks their gifts.
They wait and wait as the fool
Awaits his rendez-vous with the beautiful,
Dreaming it his fate, the thing he's born for
...

These thoughts and others plagued her as she strolled seashoreward with her girlfriends, laughing the while. Of them all, she was the wealthiest in beauty- that human geld more valued than gold. She was taller, straighter. Her eye was clearer- hazel, gray or green-blue, depending on the light and which jewels she wore. Her hair was thicker- its color changeable, like her eyes. ranging from sable to roan to blond-gold. There was gold twill in her chemise.

The flowers along the bluff-top were dazzlingly abundant, sustained, it seemed, by the efforts of an absentee gardener, for they bobbed upon the breeze in greater number each league on, with each new meridian reached by the rising sun. Soon, she had an armful- quite a large bouquet. In it were pied cosmos, tawny lilies and wands bursting with yellow forsythia (it was May) . There were black irises, which are really very dark purple, long, blue gilly flowers and much, much dill. There were wild roses, petite sun-flowers and funereal acanthae. The gentian and pansies were too short-stemmed for the bouquet, so thoughtlessly, she stuck them in her hair, to be rid of them. There was so much to see- she was always falling behind, to her girlfriends' vexation, and when they turned 'round to find her, one of them cried 'oh'! What was that all about? , she wondered, and looked around, too, but saw nothing.
...

It rained last night, I could hear the thunder grind
And saw the lightning flash between the louvers of the blind
This early morning I went out to see the damage done
To find the storm was history- it simply done move on
...