Matt Morris

Matt Morris has appeared in various magazines and anthologies, for which he has received five Pushcart nominations as well as a recent nomination for the Best of the Web 2014.  His first book, Nearing Narcoma, won the 2003 Main Street Rag Poetry Award.  Since then, Pudding House published both his chapbooks, Here’s How and Greatest Hits.  He currently lives on what remains of a farm in West Virginia with his blind singing goat Ramesses XIII.  


Four Poems (March, 2015. Issue 48.)

Apocalypse Eve

When the sun disappeared, I
painted a yellow
circle on the window to
take its place. Perfect! I crowed.

The phone rang. Dad, dead
all these years, picked now to call.
Quoting scripture, he’d
found religion in the grave.

That’s the place for it, I said
& hung up. A screech
owl perched on the clothesline where
my faded jeans hung.

Frozen in the black air, they
looked to be running away.

The Deconstruction

Come morning, longboats, laden
with symbolism
central to theme & purpose,

moor along the storyline,
long abandoned. On
reconnaissance, grey figures

of speech cross an iron-
ic bridge; the personified
river runs along either
bank, satirizing

the war. Winged horses, some not
horses but swans, some
not swans but gods, emerge
from the metaphoric fog.

Like Marianne Moore

My mother loved Tricky Dick.
She voted for him,

not glamorous JFK.
She strolled to the polls, scuffed I’m
For Nixon button
covering up the troubling

hole in her woolen
Republican coat. Standing
up for him when he bombed Cam-
bodia, head held

high as notes of the anthem
sung before the Reds
& Dodgers game on TV,

she, too, disliked poetry.

How Embarrassing

I’m out back helping Mom bring
in the laundry when
a bear (or someone wearing
a bear costume–I can see
the zipper & seams)
jumps the fence & charges. Mom
tosses the basket,
clean clothes flying everywhere,
& runs squealing to the house.
Snowy underwear
flutters to the ground. I pick
up each pair & put
them in the basket. Sorry,
the bear helps by folding towels.

The Legendary