Morgandy Caye's Poetry

While I write novels for publication, my poetry is a much more personal craft. Several years ago, a dear friend and I self-published a collection called “Along The Sappa” which is available upon email request. However, my more recent work as taken the shape of personal writings and blog posts. A sampling is below, but for more, I’d love to have you follow my blog.

Some Things Are True

Some things are true

Like the cerulean depths

Of the sea

Like a star’s heat

Penetrating darkness

Like love and hate

Scenting the air

Whether you believe

In them, or not.

Taken Back

A smoky bar

A table filled with cowboys and cowgirls

You and me, laughing and drinking cold beers

And Tennessee River begins to play

Our eyes meet, and we head for the dance floor

Move in perfect synchrony

First a two step, waiting for the tempo

To jump into overdrive

You grab my hands and we jitterbug

Faster and faster

Laughing until we can’t keep up

And the song ends

Out of breath, we head back to our friends.

Wallflower

Roiling gray-green clouds

Dance overhead,

And the hairs on the back

Of my neck rise to the occasion.

Electricity crackles in the air

Tickles my skin

A gust of dusty wind

Reaches for my hand

But I hesitate,

Not knowing the steps,

Afraid of the rumbling, crashing music.

The storm persists,

Crying big raindrops that turn to ice.

I pull away, and run for cover,

A wallflower in nature’s ballroom.

Playing by the Creek

Remember playing by the creek?

Ducking through the barn’s

cool, dank dampness

then out the back door

into the hot sunshine.

Puffs of dust rise from our steps

Cross the horse corral

Peer through squinted eyes for

Chestnut, sorrel, palomino

Spy them under the giant cottonwoods.

Swishing tails and stomping hooves

Disturb buzzing flies,

Slip-slide down the steep

Washed-out hillside

Perfect for winter sledding

To our burbling creek

Raft, bridge, dam

Endless possibilities

We search for materials

Branches, rocks, vines

Then back to Dad’s shop

Scrap lumber, shovel and hammer

carried to creek-side

and construction begins

hours later, our work a success,

We trudge to the house

cold well-water and mom’s

homemade cookies our focus.

Later, days or even weeks,

our creek construction

long forgotten. Dad asks us

“Have you seen my shovel?”

“No,” we answer honestly.

Night's Journey

Snores call out

the moon as I
slide into slumber
dark dreams rumble
in my throat rolling over
And again in my mind,
rasping across a dry
tongue like pounding
hooves chasing dreams
in a desert.
am I here?
And I wake exhausted
from my night’s journey
quiet breath lifting day.

Heirloom

Honor the tomato

By eating it.

Revel in its ripeness

Praise it's sweet pulp

It's juicy song burst

It's red or golden

Or heirloom purple

Tender skin

Pierced for your nourishment

Soul food!

Connect with Morgandy

Logout Edit page