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Jacquelyn Morgan Oct 2015
The window of the classroom blinds-
The morning sun shined through.
The little ones at school to play,
Each eager for the day

All questions stopped when once he walked
To scatter dreams of pure-
With violent bullets; he made red
The white boards and the floors

Through gutted valleys he did stride
Of children slain for none
His boots crushed lunches and he paused---
On innards low his foot

And of the fame he wished to find
The media inclined---
To tell a tale of what guns do,
Without the kids in mind

They each had dreams of perfect things ---
And all respect is due
To little minds cut off from time
To which they had such few
broadside ballad
Jacquelyn Morgan Oct 2015
Her lips were cracked, I felt along-
The ridges cold and crude
Her bladder seeped onto the sheets
I wrung my hands; withdrew

Her heart was still a living drum
I called red-lights and blue  
To take her to the machine place
The hospital, my pew

And when she woke- I seldom spoke
Of what I had been through
Nor she for she was equally
A secret-keeper too
Jacquelyn Morgan May 2015
Everybody Likes
                 Short Poem
Like this.
                 So Artsy
You can't resist:
                           To make my poem trend
by pressing the heart <3 button
                                                THE END.
where the short poems trend because no one reads if they have to press continue reading.
Jacquelyn Morgan May 2015
Noli Me Tangere
Do not touch me
I am the deer that eludes the hunt.
The thick beating drum that rests by my lung,
Is no ones to scoop out or to conquer
Round’ my neck droops -a necklace of daisies,
Withered off-white six-seasons sun-bright
A gift from the Artist;
Whose soul twined with mine,
Deep roots and thick vined.
Our fruits once plump ripe, now lie rotten
Plucked from my presence, forgotten
The essence of Wild & Free- we ran rapidly,
From, institutions, illusions, dogma, delusions
I am he and he is me. a painting, verse, a memory
& now I flee alone, paintbrush tail, no home
To hunt me is in vain.
I am the bohemian- I am never tamed
Noli Me Tangere
Do not touch me
this poem was inspired by Sir Thomas Wyatt's poem titled, Whoso List to Hunt
Jacquelyn Morgan May 2015
I am the pinnacle of controversy
Some say ******-my middle name
And still to others I represent freedom,
I am the pointed pentagram of blame.

Almost mothers spread cold-feet
Where I scrape and claw/vacuum aspirate eat.
From open, porous, space-between-legs
My Gnashing teeth-grind out the would be meat.
I am the noise that is never forgotten
Detaching zygotes from walls of womb
I am the reality of ****** indiscretion- the tomb

I do my job- do I play  “God” ?
For the “******” behind doors
Carrying secrets & dreams of more
They leave one less-plus future full-term
slide up their stockings & hope not to return

I’m the last to see the mothers-to-be
Before they change- rearranged
I see geometrically: each.separate.part:
Chalk eyes never wet just hurt
Lips-lined straight with shame
chins that never wobble- 50/50 tipped to pray
& feet with nowhere to fall, they walk away

I am the pin-cushion point of pain
To what the picketing protesters agenda is aimed
I am where pro-life and pro-choice meet
The executioner of straight to heavens unborn elite
I am the buzzing abortion machine.
Jacquelyn Morgan Nov 2014
The butterfly of many talents
talked nothing but of himself...
and never stopped to Listen
or gain true conversational wealth
cloaked in flamboyent colors
his butterfly wings so huge,
captured a little lost lady moth
(looking for the moon)
and kept her as his muse

just as the wings of the butterfly
so was the moths heart large
and so she inspired her captor unconditionally..
and loved freely, fanning him...
& flapping her wings too hard...
each time they would tear ,
she'd ignore the searing pain
for with all of her inner beauty;
by no means was she vain

the butterfly misused his muse
did not reciprocate emotion
so her wings drooping stupidly
with blind devotion
were as lost shadowed in his coloring
as before.......
searching for the light of moon in black ocean

he had never saved her from the vast
sky-sea & empty Galaxy
But used her flutter as a tool
to satisfy his selfish artistic needs

the little lost moth lost flight
As she began to understand
the light butterfly provided
was a stage light made by man

all the time she lost
robbed her spirit and stole her grace
so she rubbed the powder off his big bright wings and thought
-what good is his outward beauty now that he can no longer soar in space-
Disenchanted but free at last
moth tries but can never trust color
won't inspire art or music
and will never love another.....
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