Val Morehouse

Val Morehouse Poems

____version from a traditional slave spiritual,
circa 1860’s...
...

We will know and remember with
the inferno in our hearts,
the day a devil’s passport was stamped:
“Return to sender.”
...

In dim coolness, underground,
punctuated by the dropp and whine of the elevator
I cut open boxes and stock tomorrow’s shelves.
...

“It is also well known within the nuclear power industry, that minor accidents occur on a regular basis due to human error or purposeful sabotage.”___ Kevin Briggs, Director, U.S. Disaster Preparedness Institute,2001.


Complacency is its trigger. “Clean” its alias. Money its game.
...

Sit down little one, and I’ll tell you a story, just
hand over my deck of wicked stepmothers scary,
spells, curses, schemes, and no-money-down deals from
ordinary folks who embezzle the poor and unfortunate.
...

A building built like a blockhouse is
my office. Air-conditioned. Climate controlled.
No number on the door.
Of course. No one knows where
...

Fifty generations of moles contracted business
amid this grassy wood. Turreted trees provided all needs,
an easy Eden shingled green to lighten heavy
Junes with dew threading silver
...

Crackle of sun stranded
in blue glass she waits in that
white house so old
her breath haunts the cold
...

Dusk, an evening star...
firefly in the garden,
July moon rising.
...

Warm the petaled sun
budding from each winter breath
a crocus of light.
...

Gold of sunrise
green leaves gilded by frost, and
pumpkins like money.
...

12.

Covering ground like lightning the fox-tongue coats
rerun other hunts and shake out last coins of laughter.
One stirrup cup, and they mount to run
the beast from her hollow.
...

Green. Green the leaves,
and waves gray on the forehead of the beach.

As easy as breeze tensing lengths of hair
...

Like a lover he enters my life,
carrying his dark purpose into the bedroom.
Each thing opens to him like a map.
...

Red as a war canoe
shaking with feathers
moon rides the dark clouds.
The sea speaks its name.
...

There is something raw in the taking,
an ordinary sadness that
blackens in the bottom of the cup.
Here a fly is swatted,
...

Who am I? Why, you’re Mama.
No, I am not. I am your daughter.
Stop foolin’ me!
...

18.

Rectangles stark with shadow held tight
against life’s revelation,
that open and close on moments,
a reunion in every slam,
...

Half moon rising under cypress skin I slip open
the way green light flashes between
naked forest limbs.
...

A fish flying high
in the breast catches its death,
breath falls
from the ladder of
...

Val Morehouse Biography

A reviewer, storyteller, writer, & librarian. Current reviews are in The Ruach: newsletter of Temple Isaiah, Lafayette, California. Quote: 'Val could read the phone book and make it sound good! ' A podcast of Val reading Gershon's Monster is at http: //media.libsyn.com/media/yourjewishneighborhood/yjn-108.mp3 Click 'play now'. To hear Chanukkah Guest, a story by Eric Kimmel, go http: //media.libsyn.com/media/ yourjewishneighborhood/yjn-19.mp3 April 08 Val won 1st & 2nd for short and long poems at Pleasanton, CA Poetry & Arts Festival. Also, poems Carbon Futures and Blowout appear on CA Poet Laureate Al Young's website alyoung.org> Wild Blue Yonder section. Other readings, etc. are on blog HoopDance at Valmorehouse.com. Early reviews also appear in archives of The Booklist (Chicago) and Library Journal(New York) . Early poems were published in Anthology: a Collection of Cape Cod Writers, from Woods Hole Press.)

The Best Poem Of Val Morehouse

Sometimes I Feel Like A Motherless Child

____version from a traditional slave spiritual,
circa 1860’s...



Shaking with the fierce fright of loneliness
at 2 a.m. Staccato cries rise and flock like night
birds from your swathed blanket.

I drift to your crib still half-wrapped in a nightgown
of sleep. Again I will bend and lift you against my heart.
Wrapped together, we fold into the old wooden rocker,

the one with that special creak in its rock,
adding its moving downbeat to my drumming heart.
In sympathy my own voice breathes out notes,

singing into the quivering dark,
“Sometimes I feel like a leaf on a stream.
Sometimes... I feel, like a leaf on a stream,

such a long, lo-o-ng way-ay from home.” As your cries
hush and cease, your small face searches mine,
drawn by the spirit inside this old melody.

Between each word your sighs brush my ear as the
moment fills with a lullaby of trust between us.
And you come home to me again to sleep without fear.

Val Morehouse Comments

Elizabeth Emerick Wilholt 30 August 2008

Val is a very talented and accomplished poet. And a gorgeous redhead to boot!

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