Biography of Morgan Michaels
Morgan Michaels's Works:
'We Who Are Young'-poems
'The Museum Of The City Of....
The Ideal City-poems
Morgan Michaels Poems
Clouds under heaven fly Winds over meadow hie Through kept field and forest wild Rambles my motherless child.
The Ideal City
Consider this marvel of Renaissance wit: The Ideal City, by Lucian Laurana- See how the canny master contrived in it To lead the eye along the polished piazza
The shade of a bird flew through my head and like a needle pulling thread
-You knew her? -Yes, we had lunch several times, and then, later, at the club....
Your grip upon the silken cord grows weak you pluck them something now like zither strings It must be strange with no employ of wings to hang between the moon and quiet lake.
Like a land-locked sea, slowly drying up from the edges in, till just a splash of its former self-your long dead relations the island survivors you knew them-
A Fairy Tale
It was like in Cinderella- A bag-lady became a fairy godmother A yellow cab became a white, stretch limo A diet Coke became a champagne split
Life, Liberty And The Pursuit Of Happine...
Yin And Yang
Once I lived with Yin Nights, we sat by lamplight waiting for the commercial breaks on TV Her freshly pressed dress brushed my knee.
My grip upon the silken cord grows weak I long as much to linger as to flee (as if my ruined wings would carry me) Have I been here a moment or a week?
Truth isn't sold in the press or on-line it can't be invented or altered to suit.
Seven Basic Machines
'First the pulley. With these window-washers haul themselves up to the tip-top or drop'. 'Yes', she said, with minimal interest. 'Next'.
Up slides the blind and out of remotest heaven
from a perlmutter sky
falls the pure, the Brownian, upward drifting snow
casually but surely, in high-blown whorls;
on the rail has settled a bluish inch.
'It's cold', croaks the bird, on yellow, thin legs,
so I rise. Snow fills last years rifts and sifts
on sticks and galls and nodes of last years'