My attempts at some poetry...

Here are some experimental poems of mine that I like.

-- Daniel D. Morris

Index

Existential Reflections on ValuJet Flight 592, May 11, 1996, from Miami

The midday sky is a hazy blue, and sunlight
glints off silvered wings. Two throbbing
engines lift the DC-9 through wispy clouds,
far above the marshy Everglades. A shudder


rocks the cabin, the nose descends, then rises,
then plunges down. I am pinned
to the back of my seat, objects fly overhead:
shoes, forks, a plate of chicken. Screams


deafen my ears, the woman beside me shrieks
profanities, intermingled with sobs for mercy.
Choking fumes drown the cries in coughs
and frantic fumbling for oxygen masks.


I am silent, passive,


my mask in place, inhaling deliberately,
I feel my lungs expand, exhale, expand, exhale,
as they have done unnoticed countless times. I raise
my palm and observe how peculiar a shape


my hand is -- five flexible tubes protrude
which, at will, my mind can cause to curl
or extend, the skin stretching around
the knuckles and then relaxing. Beating arteries


enter through the wrist, dividing smaller
and smaller until they bring to every cell
the mystical gift of life. I glance
out the window, the swamp


is visible now, rushing as if
to greet me.

While writing this poem I notice a large black ant

Legs
in unison stepping
forward, winding a path slowly
across the page, reaches my pencil,
hesitation, antennae
probe the wooden tip,
perhaps searching for food, but oblivious
to its audience,

until
my finger drops, crushing
its lower abdomen, blotching
the page with a brownish stain,
anguished antennae writhe, front legs
frantically flail, attempt to drag
its crippled frame out of reach
of the unseen one,

tangled
limbs make slow progress,
lifting, bending, straining,
towards the edge of the page --
perhaps instinct or vain hope
drives it on, fighting for life unaware
that God has once more raised his finger.

Parched Lips

Ripened tomatos,
swollen, darkening. Crusty
skin splits, peels open.

What must I do to provoke your love?

If I were to bring you roses,
Freshly plucked, a bouquet in my arms,
Signifying each of the hours
I've waited to place them in your hand,
And offered them with a bow,
Would that inspire love?


Or could I tempt your love,
One evening dining under roses?
I would wear a tuxedo with a bow,
A handkerchief draped on my arms,
And present a bottle of wine in my hand,
And we would talk together for hours.


Or might our spending ten hours
On a trip to the Congo awaken love.
I would raise you on an elephant with my hand
And place a garland made of roses
Round your neck, and bracelets on your arms,
And pin on your breast a ribbon in a bow.


Or maybe taking your hand with a bow,
I would ask you to dance till the morning hours,
Swinging under the stars and spinning in my arms,
As I seek to arouse your love.
Together we would waltz between the roses,
And I would catch you in my hand.


Or on a cruise, hand in hand,
Gazing at breakers crash against the bow,
Splashing us with silver roses
And listening to the sea for hours.
Might that evoke your love,
And bring you to my arms?


Or if I should hold you in my arms,
And grasp your tender hand,
Could I provoke your love,
With a poem I wrote for you entwined in a bow;
A wish to spend all hours,
Touching those lips of crimson roses?


But tell me now my love, if not this golden bow
Placed on your hand, will unite in ceaseless hours
Our hands and arms together like the petals of a rose?