A View of "Goldilocks"

(Here's a piece that came from two completely unrelated offhand comments during two completely unrelated conversations. One was an observation about my vocal projection, the other was about the stereotypes around a woman cutting off her hair. I never know when inspiration will hit, but when it does, I'm thankful for it in any form.)

When I stood before and opened myself up to you,

you told me I wasn’t strong enough, I shouldn’t be so soft.
When I gave myself over to you, yielding to your whims,
you told me I was too passive, I should be more audacious.
When I let my hair cascade freely down my shoulders,
you told me I was being too vain, too eager for attention.
When I dared crop my coif, said farewell to my tresses,
you told me I forfeited my femininity, was too mature to be gamine.
When I was thin, denying myself nourishment to remain your ideal,
you told me you’d desire me more with curves that were thick.
When I became more voluptuous, engorging myself to please you,
you told me your arms could not contain me, you wished I were lithe.

I look at you now the way the bears saw Goldilocks;
an amusingly unnecessary annoyance to be banished.
I will wash my soiled dishes and make a new batch of porridge.
I will repair my broken chair and place it by the hearth.
I will fluff the pillows and change the sheets on my bed.
I will start anew and joyfully embrace my happily ever after,
by walking you to the door and pointing you toward yours.

(c) 2012 - Tracey Morris, All Rights Reserved

Photo found on the Glam Quotes website (www.glamquotes.com).

A View of the TEM, Ready For My Close-Up

I read three pieces yesterday at Aj's Music Cafe in Ferndale, and they recorded the show for airing on local access cable. In this clip, you'll see me along with Writer L. Bush (the night's host), John Lamb of Springfed Arts, Carmel Liburdi, Dimonique Boyd, Audra Kubat, Gwen Joy, Jack Dalton, and Odie Blew.

Hope you like what you see....


Watch live video from AJ's Music Cafe on LiveDetroit.tv on Justin.tv

A View of "To Brother Gil, Regarding the Revolution"

(We can be the change, if we choose to see that we have that power. We can be the revolution, if only we choose to be....)

We almost lost the revolution, dear Brother Gil.
We let it pass by without a second look
because it wasn't ridin' dirty down the block
in a triple black Mercedes E-Class with chrome rims,
cracked steering column, punched out dashboard,
and a 9mm semi in the passenger seat.

A View of "Mantra"

(This is an especially difficult piece. Someone I know and respect just experienced a very tragic loss. When I was told about what happened and how she was coping, everyone said, "She says she's fine, but...." The thought would trail off into the unspoken knowledge that we can not imagine what she's going through, and that she's as fine as can be expected right now. This poem is what I imagine is going through her mind and soul right now.)

How are you holding up?
I am fine.
I say this over and over,
I am fine.
I want to scream this at everyone who asks,
I am fine,
as I hang their coats and politely offer pastries,
I am fine.
My words stumble, ensnared in my throat.
I am fine.
I can only manage a meek whisper,
I am fine.

A View of "Migration of the rock pigeon"

(During my daily commute, one building I pass houses a probation and parole office. This morning, I saw a young man waiting to go inside. I could not see his face. He was huddled in the cold, his breath surrounding his hooded head like a halo. He was hunched over, as though he were told he could never stand straight again, like his spirit would not allow him to be upright. This poem came to me as I continued on my way.)

Little bird sits songless on a stoop,
a carrier trying to find the way home.
No longer penned in a well worn cage,
he still carries himself like he’s cooped up.
He once soared with contraband underfoot.
Now the only thing able under his power to fly
are messages to the Signal Corp;
a bird now wired, tethered to the ground,
beacon clasped to his tarsus.
Clipped wings wrapped about his breast,
head tucked under to keep warm,
he waits to return to his perch,
warm breath in the cold dawn air,
the only clouds in which he can nestle.
He never looks at the sun
beginning to soar in the morning sky.

(c) 2012 - Tracey Morris, All rights reserved



Photo of caged carrier pigeons on the battlefield

found on the Billionnaire Chronicles website.



A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 7

Okay, I know I promised to tell the story of how Puddy Tat, my dearly departed kitty, took out the tabletop tree I had bought the first Christmas after my divorce back in 1995.

He looks mean, but Puddy Tat was a very sweet cat...
until he had to take a Christmas tree down....

And when I say he took it out, he trashed that tree like it had insulted his mother and took the last of his catnip. It was hanging by a cord of lights, and I was finding little decorations under furniture and in corners for months after the tree had met its demise.

A View of My Favorite Christmas Stories - Day 6

When Christmas decorations are done with taste and restraint, there is nothing more beautiful. When Christmas decorations aren't, it's a spectacle that has to be seen to be believed.

(This picture is from the blog, "Roadside Curiosities.")