Maggie Morley 


 

 

Maggie Morley, (Kensington CA) has been the Editor of the Bay Area's Poets Coalition POETALK magazine for the past ten years. Her poems have appeared in various poetry publications in the US and the UK. Her chapbook, "At Blake Gardens," was published in June 2005. She is most at home with humor, but she continues to seek her true poet's "voice." When she is not poetizing, she plays tournament Scrabble®, which does not feed the sensibilities, but does keep the mind whipping about. ------------------------------ American Beauty “ The bottom line is I can’t mate in captivity ... I’ve never placed a personal want ad Seeking Refined Non-smoker … I don’t get weepy and gulpy over women’s flicks ... I never passed long lonely nights sobbing into my spaniel’s tummy ... I rejoice for women who have perfect husbands after whom I do not lust ... I am not enchanted with married men whose wives don’t understand them ... I don’t truck with he-men who call me “Darlin’ ” or “Honey” or “Shut Up” ... I can do without sensitive men who require a lot of medical maintenance ... I do not cook for, clean up after, take orders from, Mister Right ... But I really need someone to put a finger on the ribbon when I am tying a bow. ------------------------------ Wandering Minstrel Gla’morgan Morley’s eyes are needle bright, His darling brogue is rich, incendiary, He gargles jars of comfort each green night— Gla’morgan Morley’s heart is always merry. Gla’morgan Morley’s stance is grand, immense, A jolly strut of winks and randy scowls, He buys grand dinners with his eloquence— Gla’morgan Morley’s belly never growls. Gla’morgan Morley’s voice warms coolest heads, Turns humblest metric straw to lyric gold, Bewitches hungry wives and moist coeds— Gla’morgan Morley’s bed is never cold. Good ladies all, don’t weep, don’t fret sororally, It’s blest we are who’ve known Gla’morgan Morley. ------------------------------ The Januaries It’s been a not-much life; Most everything half-finished or spoiled, Friendships discarded, family fragmented, Lovers like clinkers gone cold. It’s been a life spent blaming Mom For what I have become; Blaming Dad for marrying Mom; Blaming God for inventing Blame. What sustains me as I sit in my mess Is the possibility that deep inside Might glimmer a worm of grace— A small green flash at sunset That promises a not-much redemption— The dim possibility that I might Forgive myself, might set myself free To live the life I want to live— And implying perhaps That I might be wonderful inside, that I might have done something wonderful In my lumpish progress toward my not-much death. ------------------------------ James Boswell Confides to Leigh Hunt Biddy has an overbite: Darling girl -- a treat for kissing! Met her one midsummer’s night: Chance showed me what I’d been missing! Do not say I’m mazed with love— Apish, wrapt in fond delusion, Till you know the raptures of Malocclusion!  

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Pantoum of the Opera

 

I can tell you, it’s no walk in the park,

Scuttling along these damcold passageways,

Condemned to prowl a rank amorphous dark,

Watch high-strung songsters, popping from their stays,

 

Scuttle along these damcold passageways,

These porky warblers, full of deviltry—

These high-strung songsters, popping from their stays—

Impugn each other’s art and artistry.

 

These porky warblers are full of deviltry,

(Samson rips Delilah’s negligee),

Impugn each other’s art and ancestry,

(Zerlina snatches off Don Juan’s toupee).

 

Samson rips Delilah’s negligee.

Oberon sticks his foot out: Puck is down!

Zerlina snatches off Don Juan’s toupee,

Mercutio stands on Juliet’s ball gown.

 

Oberon sticks his foot out: Puck is down!

Mephisto gooses tender Marguerite,

Mercutio stands on Juliet’s ball gown,

And Parsifal pours glue on Wotan’s feet.

 

Mephisto gooses tender Marguerite,

And what must I do? I must hang around

While Parsifal pours glue on Wotan’s feet,

And Abigail knocks off Nabucco’s crown.

 

Here’s what I must do: I must hang around

Condemned to prowl a rank amorphous dark,

While Abigail knocks off Nabucco’s crown:

I can tell you, it’s no walk in the park!

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Do Not Go Humble

 

  The shade of Dylan Thomas enthuses to his New

  Best Friends, the lads at the National Poetry Slam.

 

Do not go humble into those smug cliques

Of highbrow headcolds flaunting classic lore.

Rail! Rail against old Romans, older Greeks!

 

Avoid those ageless belles with frail physiques,

Those sniffy wimps declaiming “Nevermore!”

Do not go humble into those smug cliques

 

Where fleering Stuffed Shirts flourish: Lord, it piques!

Toplofty pedantry’s a bloody bore.

Rail! Rail against old Romans, older Greeks!

 

Make haste to squash the egghead when he seeks

To value rhymed and reasoned songs of yore.

Do not go humble into those smug cliques.

 

Salute the air with spittle-laden streaks

of A-words, F-words, fecal metaphor …

Rail! Rail against old Romans, older Greeks!

 

Shout down the staves and strophes! Crack your cheeks!

Drown out the scholar and the troubadour.

Do not, I say, go humble to those cliques.

Rail! Rail against old Romans, older Greeks!