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by DavidRMorgan

Dancing Sunrise




from our abandoned bed,
she moved through


uneven patterns of sunlight
on the floor.


The sleeping walls 
leapt into shadows, 

and in the shadows 
there was dancing. 

The light of the red rose 
in a blue brightness. 

We were dancing,
dancing, dancing…




Cracks on a windscreen


Galaxies speed ever faster away from each other.

Outside my car, air pushes air ever faster

full of shells of angels shooting this way

and that, filled with mortal silhouettes.


Air jumps up a shard of gravel which bounces

and bounces again onto my car’s bonnet,

before mating with glass, conceiving

a lattice work of cracks on my windscreen.


Cracks like an Indie band’s expanding map;

the towns of its tour spreading out,

moored to its home, its voice’s birth place,

by lines of incisive vinyl-black ink.


A woman once heard telling voices in the wind

and tried locking them outside, stuffing old underwear

into the cracks of doors and around windows.

For nights her vinyl vibrated her house with Indie.


Neighbours began to miss the sight of her

dancing among weedy lawns. All curtains shut,

they couldn’t see the platoons of cats she barracked.

Her old car windscreen cracked. Then silence.


Finally some teenage boys found courage.

The smell in the hall, cat dung and

something staler, more pungent;

they’d never smelled decay before.


That was on Ross Street by the record shop

in Cambridge, where I bought my Indie stuff.

The police came, the paramedics. Her walls were painted

maps of a dark matter universe expanding like a tumour.


The photographers from the papers flashed.

Paperboys delivered the results to the neighbourhood;

curious news of her diary entries; marching cats

and galaxies moving too fast; cracks on the windscreen.


The hollow shells of angels are everywhere.

The civilised world glows saffron. My cracks widen.

Mortal silhouettes are splashed on dark walls.

Everything has happened before.


Chant of the Dark

by David R. Morgan


The lead cold moon

darkens and dwindles 

and the frail sun

slips under the hills 

heading south.

Shady flocks settle

on the shadow groves.

Night of earth sleep

pulled by the moon

gathering gloom underground

swallowing stars as you fit

my body to yours,

turning in slumber,

stone to breathing soil;

a sleepless appetite

prowling in the dark.


Pressure Point

by David R. Morgan


I'm on the sacred anvil,
and the blow is poised above.
Everything in me pushes outward
against the boundaries of my body.
Earth presses up from below,
and the sky is bearing down.

Your absence surrounds me, and everything
about you weighs heavily upon all my surfaces.

I am the intricate entity on this profane plane;
the  hard head of your hammer rushes to greet me


 In the Library

for Amelia Earhart

by David R. Morgan

Arms attempt their reach;
catch the book before it flies.

You left the plane briefly
to join a crowd of Javanese,
walking up a volcanic mountain.
They laughed and talked,
they carried baskets
and assorted loads on poles.
"Sometime I hope to stay
somewhere as long as I like."

Arms attempt their reach;
catch the book before it flies,
from the top shelf.

For the last long passage
along the map, seeking a shadow
of land, you abandoned personal items;
souvenirs, also the parachute,
useless over the Pacific,
mirror of the sky.
Your plane staggered
from square to square.

Before what is myself becomes
stiff and glazed, I will talk to myself,
to you.

The plane staggered from square
to square with the weight of fuel,
becoming lighter, then
light. Sea dark as a cell door.
The last square was
an island, but you
never landed there,
nor ever could.

Arms attempt their reach;
catch the book before it flies,
from the top shelf towards the stars.

I am drawn, dayspring and diligence,
by the pilot at the sea’s foundation.
I want to remember you entirely,
find your lack of fear, shape
the years left to me into a flight
that embraces the world
and let go only when
there is no other way.

Before what is myself becomes
stiff and glazed, I will talk to myself,
to you, as we fall, we fall;
the book always beyond our reach.

But at that moment, because of this,
we will be falling … together.

David R Morgan (poetry) has been an arts worker and literature officer, writer-in-residence for education authorities, a prison and a psychiatric hospital staff member, and the subject of a Channel 4 presentation titled "Out Of Our Minds".  His children's books include Blooming Cats, which won the Acorn award and was recently animated for BBC2's Words and Pictures Plus.  His books of poetry includes Buzz Off.  He teaches 11-19 year olds in Luton and lives in Bedfordshire in the

UK.  davidrmorgan1@hotmail.co.uk















© DavidRMorgan 2011


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