matthew-morris-mccormick

Oh My God, they’re Home, I will not starve! I’ve got to let them know I love them so! Oh wait, they’ll know, ‘pon seeing the **** I carved, And seeing my lovely *** Art in the Snow! Will they notice if I jump up High? Maybe I should stick to making art And paint their faces with my slobber dye! Or show my love, perhaps with a quiet **** Oh Lord, my tail! my tail! Where is it now? Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad? I thought they were right here! Should I stop jumping? But I don’t know how. Perhaps start barking? Wait, I see a deer! For all the Love they show me every day, I still feel ‘lone when they’re not here to play.

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Jun 13, 2019

Jun 13, 2019 at 4:46 PM UTC

matthew-morris-mccormick

A Sonnet by an As-Otherwise Untrained, Happy Australian Shepherd Who Seems to Have had Speed Spliced Into Her Genes By An Unknown Chinese Biologist Using Crispr

Oh My God, they’re Home, I will not starve! I’ve got to let them know I love them so! Oh wait, they’ll know, ‘pon seeing the **** I carved, And seeing my lovely *** Art in the Snow! Will they notice if I jump up High? Maybe I should stick to making art And paint their faces with my slobber dye! Or show my love, perhaps with a quiet **** Oh Lord, my tail! my tail! Where is it now? Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad? I thought they were right here! Should I stop jumping? But I don’t know how. Perhaps start barking? Wait, I see a deer! For all the Love they show me every day, I still feel ‘lone when they’re not here to play.

14

For fifteen years, I've loved you as "my own"; Denying all that time that you weren't "mine". If you're not "mine", then what? Are you "on loan"? No, no, you are a leaf upon my vine. Mere foliage? No, My Dear, you are so more Ah..Ah, still green—(Oh how I miss my babe...) Yet self-sustainment, oozing from each pore, Serrated wit to match e'en Honest Abe! My God, My Sprout, how deep your roots have stretched, So thin, and with such possibility! Can Life Success and Depth be so far-fetched? Not with your Scope and Life Agility. This Day of Love I wish to say to you, Your Vine is proud, through tears of Love, of You.

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Feb 14, 2012

Feb 14, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC

matthew-morris-mccormick

A Sonnet From Matthew Morris McCormick on his daughter Ellie's Fifteenth Valentine's Day:

For fifteen years, I've loved you as "my own"; Denying all that time that you weren't "mine". If you're not "mine", then what? Are you "on loan"? No, no, you are a leaf upon my vine. Mere foliage? No, My Dear, you are so more Ah..Ah, still green—(Oh how I miss my babe...) Yet self-sustainment, oozing from each pore, Serrated wit to match e'en Honest Abe! My God, My Sprout, how deep your roots have stretched, So thin, and with such possibility! Can Life Success and Depth be so far-fetched? Not with your Scope and Life Agility. This Day of Love I wish to say to you, Your Vine is proud, through tears of Love, of You.

14

Forty Years of Kristi, A Gift to the World Forty years of living, giving of yourself, Creating a life so pregnant with delight, That e’en the stars, like playtoys of a heavenly elf, Roll and bounce to celebrate your Light. Your life, young Kristi, is a packaged gift, Brimming with millions of self-discovered skills, With some you sing; with others, give a lift, With yet more, you till the soil and hills. How ironic, you Child of the Stars, That in forty years of gifting Of yourself, Your gift, To you, is never very far; Just hold their little hands, and view yourself. Forty years, for you, may seem quite old. But for a star, ‘tis Infancy in Gold. -Matthew Morris McCormick

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Feb 27, 2010

Feb 27, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC

matthew-morris-mccormick

Forty Years of Kristi, A Gift to the World

Forty Years of Kristi, A Gift to the World Forty years of living, giving of yourself, Creating a life so pregnant with delight, That e’en the stars, like playtoys of a heavenly elf, Roll and bounce to celebrate your Light. Your life, young Kristi, is a packaged gift, Brimming with millions of self-discovered skills, With some you sing; with others, give a lift, With yet more, you till the soil and hills. How ironic, you Child of the Stars, That in forty years of gifting Of yourself, Your gift, To you, is never very far; Just hold their little hands, and view yourself. Forty years, for you, may seem quite old. But for a star, ‘tis Infancy in Gold. -Matthew Morris McCormick

16

To write a poem to benefit the web Seems strange, to type these words away from me. No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb At any time I'm free to up and flee. Such freedom tests my discipline, my will My short attention nurtured by my tribe Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville", My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe. Such excuses further pull me down Away from higher orbits of My Craft Please, my mirror, I am not a clown Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft. Can I accept the onward March of Time, Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?

0

Feb 24, 2010

Feb 24, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC

matthew-morris-mccormick

linguallingus

To write a poem to benefit the web Seems strange, to type these words away from me. No pen, no tiny turret in Zagreb At any time I'm free to up and flee. Such freedom tests my discipline, my will My short attention nurtured by my tribe Has robbed me, (so I say), of my "Melville", My Inner cummings, to which I subscribe. Such excuses further pull me down Away from higher orbits of My Craft Please, my mirror, I am not a clown Nor a hack who's steeped in Lingual graft. Can I accept the onward March of Time, Dispense excuses, get on with the sublime?

14