Tag: Morgan Bishop

Poet Cemetery

Silver Rain dusts the bridge 

Moonlight’s beams of silk

Unwritten poems walk the rail 

An Unstable language 


Yesterdays breath 

Lingers above every arch

And sinking in every pit 

Budding between brown petals


Thirty-three names silenced by time 

Travelers who have forgotten their voice 

Strays in circles of timeless stone

Voiceless pages turn


Falling petals of the tongue’s age 

Bald grass and rotting wood 

Through these are dull points of pencils 

Still dancing in the breath of winter 

A Postcard from Philadelphia

Emily, the streets here are dressed in burnt amber and broken mirrors 

put together by arcane artists like you. 

People are quiet, quieter than those back home in the Turner Trace 

cul-de-sac. I think you would like it here, Emily 


I visited Spruce Street Harbor Park, where iridescent fairies 

welcome every outsider, like you and I–

the homes made from different colored bricks and mismatched 

windows with cracked skin.


No one really cares here. 

Coffee shops play mellifluous music 

and the seats hold writers. 

You can hear their racing thoughts taking 

over their hands and pouring them out 

like a glass of large sweet tea back home. 

But they don’t have sweet tea here. 


Emily, the streets are always filled 

with people speed-walking trying to keep 

up with the fast heartbeat of the city. 

Cars line the sidewalks patiently waiting 

to travel to their next unknown destination. 


But the further you get away from the congested corners 

of bodies waiting to cross the blacktop

you enter shadowed corners with redbrick brunch 

restaurants and derelict knick-knack shops. 


Street lamps are dead unless you are standing 

right beside them; only then can you hear their whisper. 

At night the streets are pretty much the same 

just louder. Cars drive by and park in the road 

until their morning headlights shine 

through my window and make shapes on my wall 

from shadows of the trees.


Emily, this place is inviting you to come visit, if only you would listen. 

To the Girl in my English Class

You belonged to the moon

Hidden behind your eye’s blinds

There was no sunlight peeking through

small spaces, I didn’t know you

But I knew this much:

You have a tongue that traps your words 

Silenced stories waiting to be discovered 

And hands that hang like the pill bottles I once knew 


Mocking me — a mind of a puzzle

with mismatched pieces 

Doubled vision

Conversation

And biting air against pale sickly skin 

I loved you 

And perhaps I was the only one who did

This made me want to pull you out of your own shadow

and show you the other side of the moon

If only you would listen


Kisses of cocaine 

The touch of ecstasy

Cracking knuckles and dry nailbeds

Discolored skin

We were once lovers 

But we taught ourselves to be strangers 

We were silently intimate 

I saw through your painted canvas

full of inviting colors 

You were not good although you wanted to be

Beyond your voice you were begging

To be heard

To be saved 

To be seen. 


A hall full of mirrors 

Our other halves follow us 

Footsteps with a delayed echo

A smell unable to be pin-pointed

although it seems familiar 

Tip-toeing through the shadows 

A motionless light at the end 

Only one of us will ever touch 

Photography by Sumner McMurtry

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN