Biography of Bruce Morse
I was born in New York City in 1943. I began writing poetry in the fourth grade and eventually attended the poetry workshop at the University of Iowa. I graduated from New York University. I did a year of graduate school in English Literature before working
in journalism at the New York Times and Bergen Record.
In the mid sixties I learned to play the guitar and started writing songs. I also began to become interested in photography. To support myself I worked as a carpenter, cook,
teacher, healthcare worker, glass blower etc.
I had three sons in my first marriage which ended after we lost our eldest in a car accident.
I found painting as a way of coping with my grief and coming to terms with my loss.
I have explored many mediums and the art making has been a transformational journey that has put me in touch with my soul in a new and deeper way.
I remarried and my wife and I have two daughters.
When my father died a wrote a book to help me come to terms with a long difficult relationship and put the past behind me. The book is called Forgive Myself.
Bruce Morse's Works:
Bruce Morse Poems
Your Heart Will Mend
The day we brought you home There was a storm. The sky grew black as night, thunder shook, Like pages in a ghostly horror book.
The Wild Man Blues
Beneath this civil surface There’s someone you can’t see He’s the howling, growling monster, The wild man in me.
Beyond This Door
My bags are packed, I’m ready And heading for the door, Where I will once again become, The nothing I was before.
Cleopatra’s Needle threads the earth at noon Through the warm gaze of the eye of the sun. I look into the sky and see your face And think somehow the world is kept in place
The Silent Sky
It was a long time ago you left us, You went without a warning or a sign, You took all you wanted to take with you, Running like a memory from your mind.
Your Heart Will Mend
The day we brought you home
There was a storm.
The sky grew black as night, thunder shook,
Like pages in a ghostly horror book.
You and your mother slept upstairs, safe and warm.
The branches on the tree beat up and down,
Like some mad clumsy bird to leave the ground.
It’s leaves like feathers fluttered in the air,