Morgan Michaels Poems

No, she never wanted to fly the reindeer
Even as many times as she's seen it done
It's the Master's schtick-who needs it-
The turbulent descent, the wind, the ashes
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The guilty pleasure of perceiving
What we say is past believing
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When your illusions are gone your life is through
Mine not entirely-I've still got a few.
If you don't mind, if you have the time
I am more than delighted to tell them to you.
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Eluded by Elizabeth
Stung and beaten, jealous Death
(who had some business in LA)
Riding out to Monterey
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Seeking daisies for her chain
Jane bestrode an adder's bed-
Arriving promptly on the scene
Death pronounced her duly dead.
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From his sacerdotal bed
Looking Death full in the eye
(Who only smiled in reply)
A bishop, in succumbing, said
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As I go walking through the mead
I ask the heavens high above
How much, at last, of love is Need,
How much of need is Love?
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In my Democracy a diamond's the same as an agate
So long as you section it, buff it, wet it
You'll be amazed at the light that pierces through it
As long as you never actually have to view it.
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Melai, son of Hermaios
dedicates this stele
to the memory of himself,
his wife Artemeis, his son Hermaios
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