Tag: spoken word

The Current

Published on by Morgan FreyaLeave a comment

I hope you’re never self-conscious about the way you speak

the way you’ve spoken

because I may never have the nerve to tell you outside the format of a poem

that the sound of your voice

turns me on,

electric

the way it crinkles without cracking like the vast empty waters of a

bubble bath and

holds vibrancy like a baby,

weeks old,

a new thing

it feels like you’re lying on my chest

entangling our shoelaces

warmth uncontrollably pouring in through my shirt pockets

you put your hands there and squeeze

it feels like rain on telephone wires

buzzing with content

vibrations

empty conversations

we will only remember we used to talk often enough

for saliva to drip from our restless tongues

it feels like camping by the river

with one sleeping bag

and no pajamas

watching the water change infinitely with time

I wonder if the same two molecules ever

brush against each other’s backs more than once

before finding a new companion

and I want to be more than the water with you

I want to press my lips against yours

hear the trembling of your voice flow like

broken sink faucets

you can put me on the kitchen counter

you can put me to bed in the most tranquil way

you can put me anywhere you want me

drowning out useless noise

heavy breaths, quick and quicker

your tone soft and shielding like

looking up at an ocean wave

I say hello, you

come here

I want to be wet with you, please

don’t stop

don’t protect me from the current.

Ursa Major

Published on by Morgan FreyaLeave a comment

Who was the one to petrify your hunched-back frame, ambling in polar defeat and so effortlessly recognized?

He came cloaked and lusting for sworn purity when my vigilance lapsed. His spouse, a green-eyed goddess, an angry wife.

 

When will earthly life return you home, slipping soft, supple, albeit scarred skin from the grizzles of your veneer?

Tacked by seven unforgiving pins, I am an eternal example of what infidelity can do.

 

Why does your existence offer the stabbing pains of relentless tragedy in the name of motherhood?

Our precious baby, hidden in my shadow evermore, will never know the true face of his matriarch.

 

Where do you pose, tallest and proud, taunting your warden, whilst many admire your beamingly innocent disposition?

Nightly drifters gaze till winter calls me to the horizon. I hibernate in the trees. She ensures I will never drink.

 

How can I identify you, in your well-respected, “fear-inspiring” disguise mounted chiefly among the cosmos?

Prized by the masses, a disgrace to my own, I am the astronomical valley girl, gagging the moon with a spoon.

 

What do your people call you when he thunders through the eventide, his voice booming for your attention?

Pet names trivialize my misfortune, disregarding my infinite shame. My name is Callisto.

Work Poem.

Published on by Morgan FreyaLeave a comment

The linoleum floors in the break room ice my aching calves,
unmopped and sticky,
still the only relief from the humidity of Floridian weather.

Twenty-six thin blurring faces,
brushing shoulders at our incremental heights,
all in the same grey t-shirt and gym shorts that graze our knees,
marked with white barcodes plastered across the front.
We believe we are special as we march in
every morning, recaptured in a dream-
every evening, abandoned by our fans.

We scramble like ants around each other,
Tossing socks, switching spots, kicking off shoes,
Winnie the Pooh motioning to be let out,
Tigger bouncing at my head,
Eeyore tripping,
velcro ripping,
zippers coming undone at the seams
Mouths filled and dripping
with swear words whispered when the
shift manager steps out for a smoke.

I pull my costume cushions on,
fleshy pillows
wet with the sweat from the last set before parade.
My senses saturated in my childhood,
colorful
eager
continually disappointed in the people around me
as the shift manager politely reminds me
I’m only here because my waist is small and my
shoulders wide enough to work with.

Oven-like heat leaks in from the door crack and
sweeps over me, heavy,
carrying me out from the Boat Dock break room and
on stage to
make magical memories at
the happiest place on earth.

I hold my character’s head on my hip like a helmet,
and acknowledge that sometimes it just isn’t enough
to put on a happy face.

Clipped.

Published on by Morgan FreyaLeave a comment

There are sometimes feelings

you must ignore for the sake of functionality.

There are sometimes butterflies

whose wings must be clipped

and I will admit that I am tragically lonesome

and I will admit that you are captivating

and I am trying to forget

feelings far too dangerous to shrug off as the delicacy of an almost flutter.

You could slide those shears across every vein in my body

but the blood will still rush to my face every time you say my name.

I have pretended for far too long

to have found flight in someone else’s voice,

never admitting to anyone but the page

that yours sticks to my clothing like campfire smoke when I am pretending to breathe clean air.

And there are sometimes palpitations

that you can’t do anything about

so I will keep clipping butterfly wings

and you will never know that they’ve flown.