Blue Moon Poem

31 Jul 2015

7/31/05

Blue Moon Poem

Blue Moon.
Magical moon.
Two moons
born in same month.
Full moon.
Magical moon.
Defy
laws of nature.
Huge moon.
Magical moon.
Hanging
there in the sky.

BAMorris

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Morning Moon

31 Jul 2015

7/31/15

Morning Moon

The moon hangs
In the sky.
Looming large.
A creamy
Perfect pearl.

BAMorris

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Thank You!

31 Jul 2015

7/24/15

Thank You!

Someone I use to teach with recently read a posting on my blog and wrote a nice note saying she liked it. That one positive acknowledgement will fuel me for a week. It validated me as a writer so that my creative juices welled up, and my cup of writing runneth over! Let the ideas bubble and the words flow!

BAMorris

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The Boy

31 Jul 2015

7/24/15

The Boy

He was small for his age, but a bundle of energy. When going from point A to point B he never walked if he could run. Standing in line with other children was torture for him. He’d bounce on the balls of his feet or swivel to look at other students. He’d flit from his place in line to his teacher or to a friend somewhere else in the line, returning to his spot for a second, but then be off again in a flash.
In the classroom he’d sit primly at his desk, looking around to see what everyone else was doing. His focus splintered in a dozen directions: the child at the pencil sharpener; the child handing back papers; the child sneaking a snack behind a book; the child walking by outside in the hall; but seldom aware of what the teacher was saying in the front of the room.
He was in turn: distraught when the teacher asked for his attention; charming as he tried to please the teacher; then petulant when his answer to the teacher’s question was wrong. He was an enigma and a challenge, and the topic of much discussion between teachers, the counselor, and administrators.

BAMorris

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Rejection

31 Jul 2015

7/24/15

Rejection

I hate rejection! Each time some written piece I’ve sent out into the world is sent back with a: “Thank you for submitting your work but it does not meet our needs at this time,” I get a lump in my throat. At that moment I feel like that publisher didn’t reject my poem or story, they rejected ME.
So, I take a breath, regroup, and the situation settles into perspective. It was not personal. The rejection was professional, and no one said my work was awful. It just wasn’t right for them. I start to think of where to send that piece next.
It’s taken me years to be so cavalier about rejections. Knowing I’m in good company takes the sting out of a “No.” J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, and Harper Lee, all are siblings in the rejection family. But they persevered and eventually their writing found a home and they were recognized as ‘real’ writers. Now where can I send that poem about my father next time?

BAMorris

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One Generation, Two

29 Jul 2015

7/24/15

One Generation, Two

What a difference a generation makes! I had a Great Uncle who went to North Carolina to work when he was a young man. He met, and married, a Native girl while he was there. Back then, marrying an Indian wasn’t a romantic and noble act. In fact, their marriage is recorded as between two White people. Had she claimed her Native heritage, they would not have been allowed to marry for she would have been classified as Colored (as Native Americans were labeled back then, as something other than White) and the marriage certificate would have been denied.
Fast forward to the great-great-grandchild of that union. That young man would now like to know his Native background and to reunite with his grandmother’s (two times removed) people. But she died young and her husband farmed his children out to be raised by his family members. He would never talk of his wife, her history, or her family. Only the memories of her from those in my family who once knew her have drifted down through the generations. She is just a name and a story of a Native American woman from North Carolina whose blood now runs through one branch of our family.

BAMorris

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remembering Bailey

29 Jul 2015

7/24/15
Remembering Bailey

He’d slouch in with that easy smile and a joke on his lips. My mother and he were like a comedy act: exchanging quips at each other and creating a personal ongoing dialogue about a magnificent spruce tree in Mom’s front yard that he envied and was someday going to steal. She in turn, told him that her rifle would be waiting for him.
He saw things in nature that most people missed. One morning when I was working at Mom’s house, he stopped to tell me about the bunny he watched every morning from his seat in the truck. Somehow he and the rabbit had become unlikely morning companions. He told me of the gymnastics of the rabbit, of its eating habits, of its acceptance of his presence. He often told his mother of some beauty he’d observed in the morning or in the evening when Mother Nature was at her very best, relaxed and changing from night to day or day to night. He loved the magic of Nature.
He was a devoted son. After his retirement he would visit his mother several times a day, dropping in just to say, “Hay”, to check on her, to tell her an anecdote about his day.
On this the thirteenth anniversary of his passing, I want to remember the way he laughed and the way he enhanced all our lives by being a part of us for a while. I salute you, Bailey!

BAMorris

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Omar Sharif

23 Jul 2015

7/11/15

Omar Sharif (1932 – 2015)

I fell in love with Omar Sharif in 1967 when I saw him in “Dr. Zivago.” Those liquid eyes seemed to look directly at me, an unsure sixteen year old, from up there on the screen. His falling in love with Laura was magical! I wanted a love affair like that some day.
In addition I fell in love with some other things in the movie. The scenery of the movie, the brutality of the winter, and the horrors of the war, all thrilled me. The movie evoked two new emotions in me: a curiosity about and subsequent love of Russia, and a denunciation and hatred of war.
With that movie I fell in love with Sharif the actor and the magic of life even in the midst of a sort of hell. I’ve thrilled to every movie he’s been in; had my heart skip a beat at pictures of him in magazines; and, yes, cried when the news anchor reported that he had died. He was the man for whom I never stopped swooning (to use an old term from my mother’s day.) And now he is gone. It doesn’t matter that he had become old and gray, that he had Alzheimer’s, or was never as famous as Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt. To me, Omar Sharif will always be that dark-haired, sensuous man with those liquid brown eyes and honeyed, accented voice that I first discovered in “Dr. Zivago.”

BAMorris

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Early Morn

23 Jul 2015

7/16/15

Early Morn

Misty morning.
Fog is drifting.
Dampness creeping
Under clothing.

Weak sun rises.
Softened sunbeams.
Hazy, gauzy
Beginning morn.

Growing stronger.
Burning bolder.
Air is warmer.
Night is over.

BAMorris

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Corn

23 Jul 2015

7/23/15
Corn

Rows of corn.
Marching like soldiers.
Parade straight.
Arms lifted upward
To the sun.
A benediction.
Tasseling
ears their side weapons.
Army green
Leafy uniforms.
Standing guard.

BAMorris

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