The Poetry of Jean Ann Morgan
About The Author:
A prodigious musician, writer and educator, Jean
Ann Morgan is currently CEO of her own Interior
Design Company located in the horse hills of
Bernardsville, NJ. There she specializes in helping
owners of old  homes (some of them red barns)
restore their homes to their original historic and
natural beauty. She also finds time to write poems,
short stories, music, and her reviews are terrific.
She joins SPA Poetry after much cajoling and we
are delighted to post a few of the many fine poems
from her "Anthology of An Alien Avian" right here.   

    "Sphere of Life"

Sphere of Beauty,
Sphere of Strife,
Sphere of Sweet Whispers,
Of Day’s First Light.

A spec now so mere,
In a cosmos unkind,
Blinking an old message,
Across space and time.

Ever worthy,
Our hopes and tears,
Our loves and memories,
Now far behind.

Sphere of Wonder,
Sphere of Might,
Sphere we shall return to
In a New Life.
                                                     ©2016 Jean Ann Morgan
      "Ice Dancing"

To long for Pes,
To marvel firsthand,
At the cerulean glow,
Of that distant land.

To float once again,
Serenely on its air,
To twice sleep away,
Icicles of care.

Twice to awaken to  a virgin spring,
Twice survey the grandeur of a summer’s green,
Twice feel the glory an autumnal burn,
All in a single journey,
'Round two equidistant suns.

She is so agile, lithe and sleek,
With long sinuous legs,
And the thick muscular breast,
Of a powerful athlete.

Her wingspan exceeds,
More than five feet,
As she gathers great patches of air,
Shaping and cradling the invisible,
In her face, and her hair.

Playing above the land,
Darting in and out of the trees,
Signaling her pleasure with threatening caws,
Laughing at the wind and enjoying her speed.

To spend all of time,
Among clouds so bulbous and fair,
Ice dancing with her shadow,
High in the air.

                                        © 2015 Jean Ann Morgan
   "Vibrant Dawn"

He sucks a determined breath,
Holds his finger of flesh,
Closed against the steel finger,
Of the weapon of death.

The distance too far,  
His aim is too poor,
To accomplish his goal,
Yet he does not care.

He wipes off the loss,
Without a second glance,
The fun was just in having,
This never again chance.

The report of the small rifle,
Echoed through the tall hills,
A thin ring of white smoke,
From its barrel does float.

A small piece of limb,
Off a distant tree,
Drifts silently to earth,
His best shot a partial,
Only to trim.

There pacing so stiffly,
Tilting her head side to side,
In quick questioning twitches,
As the branch beneath her feet,
Shatters and dies.

Then spreading her wings,
Against a radiant sky,
She questions not,
The way of human things,
And soars without harm,
Into a vibrant dawn.

                                        © 2014 Jean Ann Morgan
Return To