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Grey Today…

But That’s Okay


by Stacie Morrell

Gray Today….But That’s Okay

By Stacie Morrell

Copyright 2017 by Stacie Morrell


Photographs copyright by Stacie Morrell

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

All Rights reserved

Other Works by Stacie Morrell:

Sir Stan the Bogeyman

The Bug Came Back

The Forgotten Room

A sequel to Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden

I dedicate this book to my mom, who edits, perfects and encourages my writing, and spent endless hours teaching me how to spell and overcome my learning disabilities. And to my dad who encouraged me and always made me want to be better.

I would like to thank my friend Aaron, who never tattled on me for breaking his arm when we were kids, and who generously provided much needed art for this volume.

What an amazing feeling, the opening of a book!

Revealing the words inside, they confide,

Secrets and stories and delights and frights.

The pages flutter, finding a place,

For the devouring of words to begin.

Table of Contents

Part 1 Fact

Part 2 Feeling & Faith

Part 3 Fantasy

Part 1


Writing By Flashlight

This temperamental Muse of mine

Seems to keep an awkward time

She wakes me in the hours of dark

Flaring that creative spark

At least I don’t have writer’s block

But my muse needs a better clock.


The blue-green lady

Wearing lichen and ivy

With ballroom elegance

Waits among the roses

For the fullness of time to pass.

The Real Woman

He strokes her like a lover;

Her head in his lap.

He plays with her hair,

Her blue eyes watch him.

He touches her ear,

She smiles just a bit.

He touches her chin,

And she purrs.

I Can Fix That

Broken windows with necklaces of dangling chrome 

Airless tires nesting in long grass

Tattoos of algae obscuring parched yellow paint

Mice nesting in rotted vinyl springs sprung into air

Vines of ivy weave through rusted holes

Silent engine dripping parts into the weeds

Warped trunk lid’s crooked smile

Headlamps shedding tears of broken glass

Carpet crisp with moss sprouting spring flowers.

The Old House

I heard they were going to tear it down.

I wonder what it feels like

To fall to the ground.

All the memories,

All the years,

End up in a crash of dusty tears.

In the halls the laughter echoes,

Distant, fading,

No one hears.

Memories everywhere,

But no one to see.

Calling out,

Calling out,

Calling to me,

Don’t bring the hammer,

Don’t bring it down!


The shy moon shines

Draped in cloudy filaments

Lighting stars against the void

Conducting tides as a symphony

Pulling the sun in its wake

As dreams break apart in the light.

My Narnia

Was not in a wardrobe

But in the storage space under the bay window.

The doors of pegboard slid aside

And I would remove all the games stored there,

Then slip in, curling into that half hexagonal space

Sliding the doors closed, I saw the dining room

In perforated relief. A small hole in the outside wall

By my face trickled a cool waft of outside air

Scented with rain, hidden dust, and old timbers.

How did my mom know when I was in my Narnia

I wondered, forgetting the pile of games on the floor.

Beautiful Ink

The petite and tidy lady is probably in her 70’s,

A regular customer always pleasant.

She surprises me today, saying,

“That’s some beautiful ink you have there.’

Pleased I say “Thank you.”

“I especially like the chest piece.”

She continues, smiling wistfully.

“My husband had a lot of beautiful ink.

Covered in it he was. I loved it.

He always wanted me to get some, but I couldn’t.

But I loved looking at his tattoos.” She sighs.

And before I can say anything she adds,

“He’s gone now and so is his ink, of course.

I miss both, my husband and his beautiful ink,

So I’ll admire yours. Thank you for getting them.”

Then she left the store, as I,

Standing there, had no words but

“I’m sorry. You’re welcome.”


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(Pages 1-7 show above.)