With Headset on Winter
(One for the Birds)
February 4, 1996

by Reggie Morrisey

The cello swells.
High tide on Smacks Bayou.
Pelicans "carpe diem."
I dance in place.

Appearing to sit
serene,
within I twirl,
I leap with grace.
Dove on a dock.
Nearly fifty...
that a shock.

Paul Winter's music soars.
Gulls in high time glide.
A flock of geese
takes lettered form
and low key ducks
tip wings upon the water.

From afar I am a statue
in the sax and cello's wake.
But I dance a jig to life.
Flight does not elude me.
Within, my hair twirls round and
ruffles of a skirt will never cease.

My heart beats
like the hummingbird.
The bored raven crows. 
The egret has my number.
One with them,
I choose motion
over slumber.

Training to be
"an older" woman.
My foot taps.
I am still dancing.

Thank You, H2O
(or One Way to Look Up)
1985

by Reggie Morrisey

Leaning on a wall of tall grass,
two thousand pounds and me.
Awaiting a hail of yellow lights
and fifty dollar fee.

My car ran off the highway, and
I am feeling mighty skewed.
The left side sliding rightward.
Will my shocks take this abuse?

And what about the tall grass?
How long will each strand stand?
I will have to thank the ice
For its ironclad command.

I will have to thank that ice
for slowing my wintry drive.
If I had been going faster,
I might not be alive.

Foot Soldiers
1975

by Reggie Morrisey

Consider the plight of
galoshes and boots;
the havoc which
they create,
when,
after advancing
through snow and rain,
the hall camp is
their ignoble fate. 

Like tired sentries,
they guard the door.
Halting friend or foe.
Each new arrival
adds to their ranks
as they mingle
toe to toe.

No medals await
the valiant soles
No salutes for
the green-rusted zippers.
Boots are cast aside
with a hostile glance.
Replaced by
high-ranking slippers.

The humans who occupy
much of their space
dream of
warm-weather substitutes;
Of sneakers, sandals,
bare-feet perhaps.
with no thanks
for fine chaps.
Poor galoshes and boots.

Winter Matinee

There is an "until" silence
 about the place.
 Trees watch and wait,
 stiffly chilled spectators
 circle the theatre on Twin Lake.

 Smoke curls from a front row fire
 like dollar cigar fumes trailing
 toward the breathless balcony.

 One star, center stage, twirls absently,
 absorbed in perfect motion.
 I am awed by her obvious devotion and
 think grace in the wings.

 Trees watch and wait.
 Below my skates their brown leaves
 hang in suspense among the atoms,
 as if in cryogenic fashion to contemplate ...

 People who bend and sway
 beneath the sky with shiny blades.
 Scribbling equations, eight plus eight, and
 daring invasions of fields now thick
 with the long bent sticks of those
 who must have a goal.

 Padded people skimming the lake
 toward invisible net and pole.
 People who aimlessly spin or
 glide with the wind
 too far beyond the fold.

 All manner of human
 nature portrayed for trees
 and brown leaves to behold ... until.
 

by Reggie Morrisey (Circa 1980)
Originally published in Westchester magazine (1981)

They stood before a magic place 
on a frigid, frantic night.
In the shadow of tall buildings,
by the giant Christmas tree,
they watched the skaters with delight.

Two little girls from a duller place,
eyed fluid waltz and frenzied race,
their mittens tracing Yule bright lights,
Manhattan style.

Their weary mother sagged behind the two.
Lost in her thoughts,
she ignored the view,
intent on dinner, package-wrapping,
ribbon, gifts untouched.

She felt one child press against her coat.
Saw a small, strange man 
standing far too close,
and knew a rage, compelling,
all-consuming urge to hurt.

The cowering man slowly backed away.
The girls knew fear as mother bayed
and lunged to chase the guilty,
doomed and frightened little man.

They rounded corners in the crowd.
Few slowed the pace of
her advance on the coward.
But both girls knew that more than
Midtown madness happened here.

A blazing woman in an old cloth coat,
nailed the small, sick man with her shopping tote,
then promptly whisked her ladies
to the safety of a cab.

With trembling hands, she drew them near,
vowing never to see in Christmas here.
Wit's ending one bright rite of Yuletide...
Big Apple style.

by Reggie Morrisey (Circa 1975)

Interfaith Thanksgiving Service
Eckerd College, St. Petersburg, Florida
November 22, 2015

The college choir,
dressed in black,
line up on Fox Hall bleacher steps.
Outside, a flock of ibis land,
white queue at rest beside a pond.
And now "Let There Be Peace on Earth"
soothes our broken hearts.

All ache as one
for the innocents
of Paris, Mali, Sinai's air.
We all honor the peacemakers,
quietly gathered there,
all faiths,
no faith,
near despair.

We now address
all the makers of peace
in our homes and
on our streets,
in nearby shelters,
on far-off shores,
in packed school halls,
on mural walls.

Let sane words echo
against the fray,
against the bloody
calls to arms.
Let us turn from arrogance.
Let the powers that be
keep us free from harm.

And let all chatter
at Thanksgiving tables
be relatively calm.

Ashton Applewhite is on a mission to counter the ageism rampant in society's media, particularly as  seen in advertising. Hearing her astute  comment  on a 10/10 Weekend Edition segment on National  Public Radio about an insulting ageist Buick commercial, I visited Applewhite's website This Chair Rocks and viewed her blog and You Tube channel.

Applewhite's message: Every senior is not ill, depressed, woefully behind the times, ripe for Alzheimer's disease or suffering from incontinence and other embarrassing system failures. Applewhite quoted statistics that show the percentages of people experiencing illness and indignities are in the single digits. Most older people live happy, healthy and fulfilling lives, including octogenarians. So, stop making fun of seniors.

Brava to Ms. Applewhite! Hers a message worth repeating until ad agencies stop trivializing and demeaning seniors once they are bumped out of the last market survey age group and arrive at age 66. Astonishing how agencies ignore the money spent by older consumers.

I applaud Ms. Applewhite's mission, exasperated as I've been by commercials featuring "older" couples: he the silver-haired energetic type and she obviously much younger - as if an attractive senior female  is too hard to find.

Aside from dispensing with the unappealing stereotypes foisted on seniors as a group, it would be even better if society did not mock the older people who do succumb to illness or suffer life's indignities. 

Imagine us being okay with jokes about sick children? Utterly unthinkable. Yet jokes about the frail elderly abound, as if laughing at them lifts a shield to keep such a fate at bay. Even if only 5% of the elderly find themselves facing one kind of ill health or another, the group is still made up of human beings. Our own kind. Being isolated by society shouldn't be their final indignity.

Our affection for St. Petersburg, Florida, began in September 1995 as my husband and I settled into a garden apartment on a bayou by Tampa Bay.

Wrenching as the move was from New York - leaving family and friends behind - from the beginning our stretch of Florida  near the Gulf of Mexico commanded our attention for all the right reasons.

Never mind the oddball news headlines crawling across the internet that  cackle, "Floriduh!" Strange things happen in a state that draws people from every corner of the country and globe: (The luckless parachutist who landed in the middle of a mud-wrestling tournament at a mid-state bar is a prime example. )
"Awkward," you mumble as you scroll such news. Life goes on.

And what life! Nature is in charge. Every day. Clouds so towering I call them Florida's Alps; flowers so brilliant in color they gleam; birds of every luxurious ilk.

And, where else but Florida can you stand cheek to jowl in a crowd to watch spacecraft blast off on missions that may change the course of human history; all the while feeling the power of such hopeful technology rumble under your feet.

We even watched the plumb rise across the state from our dock.

In honor of our 20 years, I invite you to click a link below to hear a poem reflecting the natural fascination I felt - and still do - with the quirky, beautiful place. You can read one poem that has remained true ever since it was written.

Headset on Winter 1995

Wound Management Division August 1997

Clyde Butcher

Eclipsed

Saturday

by Reggie Morrisey, 1997

“Morning!"
 "Morning."
 Or a silent smile
 on the winding paths of North Shore Park.
 A pool crowd roars at butterfly trials
 as flocks of cyclists weave and dart.

"Morning!"
 "Morning."
 Or a jogger's huff
 where sea gulls,
 egrets, and small planes rise.
 Where pelicans brood over Coffee Pot
 and bank like DC9's.

"Morning!"
 "Good Day."
 "Your baby came!"
 As newborn palms on the sandy beach.
 As Dalmatians, retrievers, and terriers strain
 against the longest leash.

Dolphins rule a swirling school.
 All high-wire abacus chirp and spy.
 Our soaring spirits mount the sky
 on shafts of sun lighting Tampa Bay.

Pass the cast of a net,
 the snap of a rod,
 kites flung aloft over rolling blades.
 Palatial Vinoy and marina in sight,
 museums and pier mere moments away.

Pass still, benched locals whose sighs observe,
 "Same old, same old Saint Petersburg."

Setting It High (1985)

There's a web spun  
on the window,
border to border
by a shivering spider,
a one woman crew.
This close to frost and
not yet September,
she's set her site high
above the crystal dew.
She's set her site high
In the shaft of sunlight.
Splayed herself to dry
against the window pane.  
Can almost hear her sigh
as she soaks in the sun
Like me,
when a check comes,
"Saved once again!"

Self-employment is only
for the daring.
Independent vendors
take many lumps.
This close to folding and
not yet September.
What shall we do when 
the fourth quarter comes?
Can the spider get a loan?
Mosey to a warmer home?
Can I bank on spinning yarns,
Spare us further cold alarms?
Shall we freeze within a poem
Have it etched on our tombstone,
"Two widows took a turn for the verse?"
Northern spider,
High and mighty writer.   
Who knows who went first? 

Life Challengers Approaching Dusk (1985) 

Their rowboat bounds for­ blindly glistening waves.

Lurching from the shore,

they bicker and spin

into the sun's path

till at last­

they are lost to my sight‑

like the first astronauts

gone behind the moon. 

Speed boats,

bellowing motors and dudes,

now leeward, starboard

bow-to-stern loom.­

Hooting teen seamen guzzle

a six pack or two,

Hot doggin it for dockside pals. 

Like mindless comets,

they spear a wake.

Asteroids,

ready to forsake the wheel.

All I hear are engines

and squeals

as the mad dash into the sun. 

Given the turbulent liquid space,

the day's end voyage

now seems a mistake.

Re-entry cannot come too soon‑

for my daring explorers,

two young daughters. 

"This is mission control.

Come in, please.

Tell me what you saw.

Bring samples

from the far off shore.

Row here victorious

and nonchalant ...” 

The sun drops to silhouette

their boat into view.

At peace in a cove

riotous with crickets.

Bent over lilies­

bundled up for the night,

the girls are all right. 

My eyes pull their oars hard,

will them to this shore,

passed macho vessels,

intoxicated with power. 

As they dart across the lawn

and toss down the oars,

I wonder

who wills the wild boys home

at this bewitching hour. 

What can I say about typewriters? There's a material side and emotional side to my tale:

• The jacket of the Piccadilly-brand journal I opened to write this essay is covered with ink-drawn illustrations of old-fashioned telephones, cameras, typewriters and other desk paraphernalia.  One glance at the vintage typewriter images and I carted the journal to the Barnes & Noble checkout counter.
• On the narrow shelf that runs above my computer, I've placed a desk- and-typewriter-shaped ceramic salt and pepper set. I was delighted to find it at a yard sale on Martha's Vineyard, one of my favorite places on earth, locking in pleasant memories to retrieve anytime I notice the pair.  
• On the same narrow shelf is a typewriter Christmas ornament on which rests a notepaper that reads, "Peeperback Writer How-to Guide." It's a remnant of a Beatles diorama  I created with a team of tech writers for an entry in an IT department  "Peeps" contest, definitely a fond memory of a corporate team-building exercise. Peeps are sugar-coated marshmallow candies shaped like chicks. Placed in Easter baskets, they dry to rock hardness. Creative IT geeks use them as contest-building material, at least they did in the 12 years I worked in IT. A Peep sat in front of the typewriter in the Beatles diorama, dried to rock hardness.
• For 20+ years, I've tucked a typewriter-shaped metal bookmark into my annual pocket calendar. The bookmark is stamped with the words "Smith Corona." It is a memento from a job in marketing, one in which I did not accurately decrypt the subtext of the bookmark designer.  Still, a lifelong attachment to typewriters outweighed any reminder of that experience. I like my little bookmark and all it represents, which is not in fact - typing.

Ahem

Two of my older sisters excelled at typing - speed demons who took pride in their skill and earned income for their families. Yet, as a teenager, the last skill I ever wanted cited was typing.  In my observations, employers who knew you could type relegated you to the typing pool.  If you doubt it, watch an episode of the 1960s office drama "Mad Men," and see the rows of "girls" on the job.

Much to the chagrin of a 1960s high school teacher, I never typed beyond the paltry rate of 40-words per minute, and I always looked at the keys.  That teacher - a Dominican nun - remained a lifelong friend - ever pointing out with a mother superior lift of the eyebrow - that I've spent my entire adult life at keyboards, probably hundreds of hours more than would be required of a half-decent typist. Ahem.

You Name It, I Lugged It Around

Name the typewriter brand - SC, Royal, Corona, Underwood - IBM -  over the years, I owned it. I lovingly set it up on the nearest flat surface - cocktail table, dining room table, desk or picnic table - to fire away.
Given college and grad school papers, poems and freelance articles, I pale at the reams of paper and rolls of ribbon purchased, not to mention the Wite Out and other agents that disguised strikeouts. I treated even hefty electric typewriters with respect, meticulously cleaning a rotating typing ball with cotton soaked in alcohol to at least keep the key strikes snappy.

Never So Free

The introduction of word processors in the 1980s released me from the angst of re-typing - that exasperating necessity most often discovered as I reached the last line or two of a page.  With word processors and later with document applications, I excelled as a cut and paste expert. I actually reveled in cut and paste. Could dance a jig over the ability to make changes so easily. And sing the praises of Spellchecker! The only thing better was dictation - that to a professional - as I did over the phone for feature stories for The New York Times in the late 1980s and early 1990s -  or in recent years to the nifty Dragon speech- to-text app on my desktop.

Back to the Future

So, it was with mixed emotion I read in the January/February 2015 issue of Poets & Writers that new applications and software features mimic aspects of the typewriters popular between the 1860s to 1970s. An application created by Tom Hanks (the Tom Hanks) recreates the sound, type fonts and appearance of the original machine. It's now possible to compose by tapping typewriter keys and backing up your content  to the cloud. Whoa! One device even lets you touch the screen where a virtual Wite Out will delete unwanted characters.

I'm tempted to try it, just for old time's sake. What would it be like to hear the clack of the keys, taunting me to compose another line? Still, a lot appears to be missing from the modern experience. Where's the need for a paper carriage return that ground its gears and always spurred me on? No point sliding in a piece of paper and turning the roller handle to bring the sheet around and snap it into place.  All gone.
Having owned those half-dozen typewriter models, I think of them as my version of the vintage sports cars my pilot brother tinkered over in his garage; the same big brother who lent me his Olivetti when I started college.

Hunched over that first typewriter, I confirmed the notion I could stare at the keys and type my own thoughts - not the ideas someone else needed to have typed fast. It has been bliss, being paid to think; though I probably could have more forcefully specified how much I wanted to be paid - as in more.

Awkward

Getting back to one of my early life dilemmas: Two sisters could opt to be offended by my aspirations and a sporty brother backed them.  I might have turned a much-loved nose or two out of joint by wanting to be educated beyond what was then deemed the norm for females of our family.  Or, I could "miss the basket" when I tried and let down the brother who went so far as to lend me his precious Olivetti portable, purchased in Italy and chockfull of his own driven memories. 

Neither happened. Since my early agonizing over ostracism, I came to realize no one cared about my ambitions as much as I did. Not one sibling tried to stop me. There might have been some initial standoffishness, some "Just who do you think you are, Squirt?"  But not so much. Whatever flashed through their minds seemed to center on how I could disappear into a far-off new orb, leaving them behind.  Never!
With experience, such misgivings fade - as do all anxious content items on life's flickering screen -  passing headlines appearing as the human family's evening news - as fast as my mind can type them.