DAD’S FINE 

By

David R Morgan

 

  

 

Dad’s fine.

 

 

 

He doesn’t want to see you.

 

He’s warm and brave

 

and immobile – caught between words.

 

He rests comfortably in his room.

 

  

 

 

 

The doctor shaved his head.

 

Dad likes this doctor,

 

describing his humour as ‘elegant’.

 

The doctor cut into dad’s skull

 

 

 

with a small circular saw.

 

  

 

 

 

Dad smiled through it all, syllables suspended,

 

should he wince, the needles adjust.

 

Inside dad’s brain, the doctor

 

had clamps, gauze, cotton and blood.

 

No pain. The brain knows no physical pain.

 

  

 

Completed,

 

the doctor proclaimed a profound success.

 

The portion of skull replaced;

 

scalp stitched into place –

 

everything tidied up.

 

  

 

Dad’s fine.

 

He doesn’t want to see you.

 

Dad doesn’t know who you are …

 

                                                anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

THE FOREST’S BIOGRAPHY 

By

David R Morgan

 

 

The buildings are all

 

sleeping on crutches,

 

but the feelings of the forest are awake –

 

deeper than rivers forgotten and forgiving;

 

dearer than flowers and buoyant wild bushes;

 

clear as the music of birds.

 

 

 

The buildings are all

 

stuck in shadows and cement,

 

but the forest is light –

 

bright like the fur on bees;

 

of foxes shining in the snow;

 

deer coming and going at will.

 

 

 

The buildings are all

 

without emotion or movement ,

 

but the sails of the forest

 

are open and green –

 

every branch is a friend;

 

leaves uncurling – pleased to be pleased.

 

 

 

 

 

VAMPIRES

By

David R Morgan

 

 

 

We live in the fleshy dark

 

of our thousand-flower curse,

 

as the petals – our children,

 

fall from the bloom to their fate.

 

 

 

We weep blood – blood

 

shed through lost generations

 

and we grieve like the shadows

 

that give birth to words.

 

 

 

We possess the night, our realm,

 

pursuing the destiny we so desire,

 

with the strength of poetry –

 

moths in earnest drawn by the flame …

 

 

 

until the morning devours us

 

and we become light.

 

 

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