Free at Least

featured in the poetry forum February 12, 2014  :: 0 comments

Something about the melancholy,
“fuck you” comes out as a strangled cry,
call for help and a declaration of no war.

Armistice heavy at my side.

Wheat waving at the end of
gladiator life, walking into fields,
a road that leads to heart’s content.

Maybe not.

Old age and ears close to the harsh
sound of mouths’ invective, I can pretend
to never hearing and it brings me peace.


Close eyes and blood disappears into
the memory of red drip falling on my
sword, lips mumble saying I will fight no more


Plowshares, I can farm out goodness
like a co-op, the million monkeys typing
out my last will and testament, beneficiaries


God is in the silence, the Devil
is in the details, a clean sweep with
a dirty broom, excrement excommunicated

And I find religion here.

Knocking on a battered door,
I can do little less than answer.

editors note:

Pious pretense? Whatever our conscious constructs, validity is vetted by the most expedient illusion; so long as we’re free… at least. – mh


January 24, 2014  :: 0 comments

I am not a morning person. That being said, most weekdays I am up at five o’clock to make Alex breakfast. Somehow, the eggs are not broken, the scramble is light and fluffy, the bread is perfectly toasted, the myriad of pills Alex takes are all laid out in the right dosage. I lay the food and accouterments on the …


September 28, 2013  :: 0 comments

Sometimes it gets into my dreams. English/Italian words, one language turning into see jack fuck you geloso cagna asshole và a farti fottere! run. Someone’s hammering nails, soda bottles are falling, marbles are rolling on the floor. Then I wake and I know just what it is. They’re fighting again. Mommy and Daddy screaming around the house, doors slamming, Daddy …


September 26, 2013  :: 0 comments

You cannot, cannot mislay something this empty. ~ Kushal Poddar

Placed in clear bags
visible to a chosen few,
put in freezer’s frosty mists
it leaves a stain forever wet

Turns red within our hands
fingers falling one by one,
a useless glove appears,
a net to catch infinity.

All around, a square foot
of space captured, we know
not what it is, but keep it safe
until we do, eons spent contemplating

Zero, absolutes are what we
believe in, we dug through cosmic
sand and this is what we found,
we saw it there, we never saw a thing,
but we believe, oh, we believe, in emptiness,
in nihilism, worshiping what no one says exists.


featured in the poetry forum September 26, 2013  :: 0 comments

She fell in love with a picture
from a thousand years ago
of green eyes smiling (but it was a smirk)
she didn’t know it was yesterday
a day that never was, a time she’d never know.

The man behind a painting well reversed
lay sleeping under cover, red eyes shut
that would be bright, long hair greasy
under guises of the night, voices raspy
gasping out history, her story in his sight.

She was young but much too old.
He shivered in the heat, sweating
in the cold of winter days, gathered
women, lied of youth and lithe visage
and they were dazzled, drugged by shot matte.

She was growing younger every day
and he resembled photos fading
in the way old photos do, sepia
browns and grays, she found one
hidden up his sleeve, he died that way.

She was born again, he never was,
into a land where souls were golden coin
and clear as glass, she saw everything,
revealed at last as what was true and
what had never been, she loved a photo,
left a photo hanging in a room, no windows there.

editors note:

When in pursuit of picture-perfect love, love a perfect picture. – mh


July 20, 2013  :: 0 comments

In was the summer of 1963. We lived on the fifth floor of a high rise in Sunnyside, Queens, close to the cemetery where my relatives were buried, the Queensboro Bridge, and the EL tracks. Our terrace had a view of the large water tanks by the river, and a great big bakery billboard. It was heaven. Though I didn’t …


featured in the poetry forum July 2, 2013  :: 0 comments

There are no points to this
nor any short way there.
What you see are diamonds
in the rough, tenuous, we call them ‘A’.

Death imagined on the other side,
a membrane made of gauze
we float through, searching
for a better term, we call it ‘B’.

Distance is a line, not.
Curved space rotates,
ideas are challenged
and we find what’s real is knot.

Universe and universe,
they talk and talk and words
lose meaning, angry is the juice
that ties in intestinal knots.

Fingers feel the pinch, we spin
and spin a story into cloth, add
characters and clauses, beginning
is the end, the end is the beginning,
our minds unraveling the secret knot.

© Rose Aiello Morales 2012

editors note:

Life’s got questions, we make up answers; ready or knot. – mh

Black Thesaurus

featured in the poetry forum October 28, 2012  :: 0 comments

a pencil drawing, obsidian
and lead before the first tear falls.

Power surges,
bulb condemned on thin line,
dull glow sparks, semblance of still life.

Shadow plays the walls,
flash somber on curdled cream,
faded paper drinks the dying sun.

Inside, outside,
bones grow brittle rickety,
pasty sallow shades of D minus.

Bent back crawls
along these ink smudged halls,
pallid lost, sketched in hidden corners.

©2012 Rose Aiello Morales

editors note:

Every poet’s plight: Give me a word that means, “Ecstatically agonized effort to emote and see wrote words which match the feelings inside.” – mh

White Out

featured in the poetry forum August 9, 2012  :: 0 comments

Snow white on the ground,
the hunter drips red,
skin translucent fades in flakes,
melts, there’ll be blood
in Springs of roses.

Alabaster purity, but what
of twigs of brown? Red earth
lies fecund, yellow forsythia
flowers in the mud pristine.

Cloud reign, subjugation,
the turning of umber planted fields,
black gold rapes greenery, crude
feasts at the court of public opinion.

Black Christ has blue eyes,
his story whited out, re-written
by the conquerors, the page is blank,
white vellum throwing off all hues.

And white becomes grey,
covering the colors of Earth,
plowed under, they cannot grow,
reign washes deep, a drop chain
binds, ivory gloves hold the keys.

Ice, snow, the Winter
of sallow cheeks, cold for years
and years
and years,
but Spring comes slowly,
oh yes, Spring is bound to come.

©2012 Rose Aiello Morales

editors note:

No umbrella can protect from a soaking by this reign. But, don’t swallow their story nor despair. Rose is right; in time, the Spring will come. – mh

My Disease

May 12, 2012  :: 0 comments

It follows me
everywhere I go,
I carry it in my bag of thorns
where I keep my screams,
silent like broken stems
rotted petals, stuffed beside
the vial where I keep my sickness.

by day
I cook it on a slow boil,
the smell of burning bile,
taste of acid drip,
I pour it in my coffee,
spread it on my toast,
a fine repast
for one who will not let it go,
cannot let it go.

At night
I revel in the ink,
the ebony curtain falls,
I dream in color,
calming color,
anger leaves my mind,
my hands, my mind unclenched
until I wake, retrieve my vial,
breathe in, breathe in
elixir of disease,
my angry sickness,
I pour it in my coffee,
spread it on my toast…

© 2012 Rose Aiello Morales