"What do you do when you are sixty-two and permanently disabled by multiple sclerosis? The world gets much smaller when you can no longer go out into it easily. Time gets harder to fill without the use of hands and with increasingly limited endurance. Two problems arise, how to meet the needs for community and creativity. It helps to have a bit of serendipity. A year ago, I happened upon an article in the local newspaper about a writing group started by Maxine Hong Kingston that was still meeting after ten years. While the group’s original purpose was to heal the wounds of Vietnam veterans through writing and an encouraging community, it had grown to include people from a number of backgrounds. Best of all, from my point of view, the group met only fifteen miles from my house. I had found my community." (From the Anthology, My Bio)

Since publication in September, we have been out and about at events, bookstores and classrooms giving readings and promoting our work. My first reading was at the Paradise Ridge Winery in Santa Rosa. Following is a poem I wrote about that experience...

The View from Paradise

You let me out, Lord.
I thank you for that.


Only for an afternoon
but you took me to Paradise.


Long ago, you set a path for me
which I have followed faithfully.


The path became a rut,
then a trench and then a ditch.


The ditch became a chasm,
which has now become a canyon.


The canyon walls are narrowing
and are to sheer for me to climb.


You've held me there till now
and now open a valley before me.


You lead me to a ridge overlooking that valley
and show me the countless possibilities below.


Yet here, look here where we stand
surrounded by oaks and grasses and people.


Here, in this small place,
you show me my reality.


My energy melts away
under the sharp September sun.


Not even shade or breeze
can revive my body.


I never ever imagined it would be like this
but I only drew from youthful memories.


You want me to speak to the people
the poetry we set down together.


But before I can finish
I falter, I fail.


Did you bring me here to show me
what I can no longer physically do?


I see that and also
the extent of your cruelty.


You say to me
open your eyes and see beyond.


See the one who loves you most
and finishes speaking the words we wrote.


Listen to the words of yours and others
and recognize what is there.


Fill your senses with language and love
for that is what you have
and that is all you need.


Thank God, Lord.


Don Edward Morris
September 11, 2006



    
Here is one poems I read on Paradise Ridge (see photo above).  It's in the book but it's been changed somewhat.
	
	
Shipping Away
 
Is there a space
for one more breath
in the farthest darkness
of a moonless night 
in solitude and quietude
and dreams...

... a strange desert.
Wind driven by centuries 
of lost sighs 
calls the sands
into shrouds 
infused with 
moonlike peace
welcoming 
a thousand last breaths 
to enter.
One turned 
and waved 
goodbye...

... in solitude and quietude
when life goes out
when life comes in
and some distant writing 
somehow decides if you 
awaken or stay dead
asleep?

The telephone...
the telephone...
the telephone...

Reality's ice knifes through 
so many layers of sleep
where I crouch safe from what is,
where I recline in timeless 
unconcern
until the blade strikes 
the bone of contention...

the telephone...

My hand gropes into the black world 
and finds... the telephone.


Nothing warm 
or polite to say,
and as I stand
angry and dumb 
I hear a voice distant 
yet familiar like home,
my beautiful son speaking:
dad, we're shipping out today.
I only have a minute left
and I wanted to tell you
I love you, dad.  Goodbye...