Maren E. Morgan. The first name rhymes with STAR-Ben. It's Danish, although I am not. I was named for a friend of my mother's who was named for her great-grandmother back in the old country. I think of myself as a mother first, then a musician, then a person. My sons are the best things about my life. Musicking: I perform and compose. House rehabbing: Not a talent I ever thought I'd develop, but one thing led to another and I am now well versed in the lay person's ways to evaluate and demolish neglected houses. See my many, many articles on hubpages.com as Maren Morgan M-T. Also, my upcoming book: I Rescued a House: One Woman's Victory with an Abandoned Castle. Writing. Oh yes, I write. I turn out copious free verse poetry in addition to how-to articles. I enjoy sharing my life wisdom (scant, but it's yours for the asking.) I absolutely love what I do. It's very rewarding to invite people through my creations to be all that they can be in a safe, honest, explosion of unique, genuine energy. (I am very enthusiastic, if not utterly insane.) Please visit my under-construction website: marenmorgan.com.
Dark Cold Winter Woods
In the dark, I pass a Schwarzwald. Pine trees drip and drool in the obsidian pre-dawn. The thick black copse is cold and damp like a grave and thin frozen firs scrape the dirty oily sky without giving shelter. No lingering for me. I feel unease and the apprehension that Hansel and Gretel should have had. Dank, inky winter forests drive ice worms into my soul. This dense night wood
Poetry
May 2017
Chasing Rabbits
Chasing Rabbits Your first treatment you mercifully sleep through. Your first chemo and you sleep and sleep and sleep with your IV’ed hand propped on a pillow cross-stitched with magenta hibiscus blossoms. I’m glad you are oblivious to the gory war stories recounted by your fellow infusionees. Your gentle hand twitching, lip wiggling, and ankle rustling show me that in your dreams, you’re chasing rabbits– You and Queenie, your beloved
Poetry
May 2017
Another answer which eludes me
Poetry
May 2017
Maren Morgan
Maren E. Morgan. The first name rhymes with STAR-Ben. It's Danish, although I am not. I was named for a friend of my mother's who was named for her great-grandmother back in the old country. I think of myself as a mother first, then a musician, then a person. My sons are the best things about my life. Musicking: I perform and compose. House rehabbing: Not a talent I ever thought I'd develop, but one thing led to another and I am now well versed in the lay person's ways to evaluate and demolish neglected houses. See my many, many articles on hubpages.com as Maren Morgan M-T. Also, my upcoming book: I Rescued a House: One Woman's Victory with an Abandoned Castle. Writing. Oh yes, I write. I turn out copious free verse poetry in addition to how-to articles. I enjoy sharing my life wisdom (scant, but it's yours for the asking.) I absolutely love what I do. It's very rewarding to invite people through my creations to be all that they can be in a safe, honest, explosion of unique, genuine energy. (I am very enthusiastic, if not utterly insane.) Please visit my under-construction website: marenmorgan.com.
Dark Cold Winter Woods
In the dark, I pass a Schwarzwald. Pine trees drip and drool in the obsidian pre-dawn. The thick black copse is cold and damp like a grave and thin frozen firs scrape the dirty oily sky without giving shelter. No lingering for me. I feel unease and the apprehension that Hansel and Gretel should have had. Dank, inky winter forests drive ice worms into my soul. This dense night wood
Poetry
May 2017
Chasing Rabbits
Chasing Rabbits Your first treatment you mercifully sleep through. Your first chemo and you sleep and sleep and sleep with your IV’ed hand propped on a pillow cross-stitched with magenta hibiscus blossoms. I’m glad you are oblivious to the gory war stories recounted by your fellow infusionees. Your gentle hand twitching, lip wiggling, and ankle rustling show me that in your dreams, you’re chasing rabbits– You and Queenie, your beloved
Poetry
May 2017
Another answer which eludes me
Poetry
May 2017