Unfurl your sails and join T. Haven Morse – author and winner of the Fall 2017 Literative Contest and the Endless Beautiful crew in this search for creative treasure!
Walking the fine line between entertainment, intrigue, and offense, T. Haven Morse enjoys penning in the realms of both literary and genre, as well as, both poetry and stories. She likes to strike straight to the hearts and souls of readers when possible. Morse has previously published a persona poetry collection through Bountiful Balcony Books, entitled “Flooded By”, and has seen other pieces published in journals and anthologies world-wide including Haiku Journal, Paragraph Planet, 101Words, Verbatim Poetry, and “In Medias Res: Stories From the In-Between.” Her latest book to hit Amazon and bookshelves is “Beam Me Up, Yoda” – a fan fiction fauxetry collection of poems from one-hundred of the most iconic scifi/fantasy characters of all time. Haven lives in the heart of a Texas national forest and emerges from her sanctuary only when necessary for promotions and further adventures. Find her on social media outlets under her name (THavenMorse) and at BountifulBalconyBooks.com.
Website – https://www.bountifulbalconybooks.com/thavenmorse
FB – https://www.facebook.com/thavenmorse
Twitter – https://twitter.com/thavenmorse
- Walking Around on a Windy Day
- Tree of Birds
- Breakfast at Danny’s
- Driving Junk
- Native American Drums
- BioBlitz Music
- Muffled Waves
Track used during discussion:
“Solitude” by Entertainment for the Braindead
T. Haven’ s Result
T. Haven Morse
Podcast Piece – Episode 43
I search for an escape.
Trapped in the white noise of life and suffering
Sucked down by the waves of tragedy and struggle
Maybe my escape will come by vehicle, maybe by foot
Crunching the gravel or snow or leaves of fall
Keep moving, keep trudging, toward outside-the-box
Unlock the door to salvation, to freedom,
Not into the comforts of home but into another realm
A place of uniqueness and extraordinary circumstance
No longer trapped in, no longer a slave to standard
The mundane and superficial, I long to descend the
Staircase of life into something more, my something more
Sirens call to me in the distance of my mind,
Birds cry out to me beckoning me toward higher places
Children’s laughter reminds me that I am not stuck here
Chaos is loud, noisy, and gritty but I would rather
Have that than the blank, placid, existence I’ve been
Living thus far. I need an escape.
Other people surround me, unaware of my search,
They are happy in their bubbles of normalcy
Families, friends, jobs, and the like
These are not what I want in my bubble,
In my world, give me scrapping, give me clawing,
Rip out my heart and feed it back to me.
Universe, grind me up and spit me back out,
I desire the grinding, the tearing of flesh, and bone,
It is the drumbeat in my tortured soul
This necessity for escape pounds in my ears,
Blinds my eyes, like three trapped mice,
My spirit throbs for release and freedom
Spirit of home, please release your daughter,
Let me soar in the skies of possibility,
Make mistakes and play to the sound of my own fiddle
Only when set free will I be able to breath
To relinquish your vision for my future and
Settle onto the beach of my own soul’s sunset
Wave goodbye as I run, say so long as I flee,
Don’t cry tears for me, this is what I need
As I search for an escape.
A cold south wind ran across the church’s mottled stone face. It’s crimson door shone defiantly through the tumult of leaves dancing across the concrete. There was a storm coming and James didn’t have anywhere to sleep.
He went up to tall red door of the church. A yellowed, exposed bulb, dully lit the corridor. It’s filaments were much too old and frail. A friend.
James tried the brass hand of the door and half-surprisingly, the door nudged open. A blast of musty air filled his nostrils as he peered inside. The warmth made James feel the numbness in his cheeks. It had been a couple days since he had been inside.
The last spot was a broom closet on the backside of the school. The janitor took pity on James when she was taking out the trash. Told him that he had 15 minutes to sleep in the corner. He did, and when it was over, she told him that she would call the cops if she saw him again.
James pulled the door open a little further. He entered the church.
There was a jangle and a creek from within.
“This goddamn thing is going to be the end of me!” yelled a whiley old man with half a stoop. James went to pull the door open to leave.
“Oh no you don’t. You better get your ass in here and help with this pump.” The twisted white haired man had one hand on the level of a pump, the kind that James used to pull water from when he was young on his grandparent’s farm.
“Water?” asked James confused.
“Nope. Music and good vibes. Of course it’s fucking water! Now help me with this thing!”
James shut the door behind him and shuffled toward the old pump.
“Grab that bucket. That tin one behind you.”
“Good. Hold it up just like that. NOT LIKE THAT. YOU’LL DUMP IT ALL OUT! Okay. Here we go.”
“I hope you’re ready for a ride James.”
EB 047 with T.Haven Morse
Mushrooms are growing in the houseplants!
Amanita muscaria emerging from the potted dirt—
little jungle—do you bear me poison?
Where will your spores go
when soil is so scarce?
it’s not like I dust very much.
I’ll be your vector—your rain cloud.
I am mistress of the kingdom—
and among my cabinet (and on top of the fridge)
now reside living proof of the other kingdoms—
(bacteria and archaea are surely here too
but their votes are subtle, their advice discreet)
Good welcome dear advisers!
Can I get you some kibble and miracle gro?
Who else is here?
We are besieged by blue jays!
Starlings and squirrels rally on the fence posts.
Sirens and streetsong their war cry,
the backyard is the teeming moat
between us and the wider city.
Wandering marauders of dogs and their walkers
in the churchyard—their throne a threat or an offer:
the damp discarded armchair dumped
on the pine needle lawn.
Ready the trebuchet, we set launch
the fallen key lime petals—the wilted orchid and
the African violets tilt toward the windows,
archers and watchkeep. The Alocasia
shall be our general—the cat and
the sansevaria our last line of defense,
hardy beasts with each her own ferocious strength.
With the battle planned—should we head forth,
prepare for fire with our bellies warmed
by marching tunes? Settle in for the wind?
For the untiring draft in the windowpane?
Hang on—wind and window.
This is like coven and Coventry.
What witchcraft there is in words!
Their hidden plaintive attributes,
their being in there all along,
the mushrooms in the potting soil
emerging until they’re seen.