The One You Never Thought Cared

We are a hand that opens a door

We are a voice that says good morning

We are a teacher without a lesson plan

We are a counselor on the move

We have two ears that hear and listen

We have two eyes that never see enough

We are known by first name to those who matter

We are unknown to the many who complain

We are not valued by those we work for

We are worth more to those who depend on us

We make perfect trips every day and no one notices

We make one mistake and the tears of many will fall

Our worst fear, our nightmare could come to pass

Our pain most profound is one few will ever know

We are the folks you never thought cared

We drive the big yellow bus

The Woman In The Window

 Can you see the woman in the window?

      She basks in the glow of the moment,

       donning a princess pink gown

       with a train of angel white.

       Nervous tears of joy

       stream down her vibrant face

       streaking her blushing cheeks

       a pallad hue of shadow blue.

Can you see the woman in the window?

     She bathes in the light of renewed hope

     dressed in a large billowing top

     with teddy bears adorning the front.

     The sudden thrust of an innocent kick

     forces her to clutch her swollen belly

     and a tender smile fades to a wince

     as motherhood pains begin to quicken.

Can you see the woman in the window?

     She soaks in the brutality of the moment

      clothed in a torn cotton gown

      with crimson streaks down the front.

      Like a doll thrown to the floor,

      she lay broken against the window

      her head twisted slightly askew

      with finger bruises around her neck.

      Her battered terror ravaged face

      pressed against a cracked window pain,

      like some macabre masterpiece.

      Two crystal blue eyes frozen in fear

      now free from the hands of oppression

      surrender a horrible unspoken truth.

      Huddled next to the cold lifeless body,

      a tiny teary-eyed little girl

      clutches a frail banded hand

      and loudly whimpers the words:

      Mommy! Please wake up!

      Have you seen a woman in the window?

      Will she be there tomorrow…?

The Teacher

O Teacher! My Teacher!

I would dare to channel a master just for you.

I know not if I am up to this lofty task,

but it is to your expectation that I try to rise.

You never asked for anymore than my best

and I love you for never demanding any less.

O Teacher! My Teacher!

If you had not opened a locked door,

the engulfing rays of enlightenment

may never have caressed my yearning face,

or held me tightly in her awakening embrace

releasing the song desperately trapped in my soul.

O Teacher! My Teacher!

You always said I had a great gift.

If that is true, I heap all praise on you.

You have the most wonderful offering of all

for within you rested the ability to recognize

the potential now flowing freely under my pen.

O Teacher! My Teacher!

I will forever hold you in the highest esteem.

I am not certain if mere words could ever express

the appreciation I have long held for your guiding hand.

Undaunted by the impossible task now in front of me,

this student will once again try to impress his teacher.

The Rising Star (A Poem for Mia)

As I look up into the vast darkness

gazing at the celestial masterpiece

adorning the clear night sky,

my eyes scan the heavenly bodies

in search of not the well known,

but for the one yet to become.

The quaint unassuming star

hidden in a forest of brilliance

unknowingly unique by design,

unaware of its own potential,

and uncertain of its own place

in the divine scheme of light.

Only the discerning eye can see

this spectacle of light waiting to be.

The captivating glimmer of promise

from afar of a unknown rising star.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,”

wonder not what you are,

but all you dream to be.

“The Rising Star” was inspired by a very gifted student that once rode my school bus. At age thirteen this young girl could write better than some that call themselves writers and draw well enough to illustrate a publication. I once called her a “rising star” because I had never been more impressed by a student. If I had never called her a “rising star,” I might never have explored the meaning of the phrase more thoroughly and this poem would never have been written. I could not use her actual name, but I felt she needed to be acknowledged as the inspiration for the piece, so I used a nickname only a few folks know and subtitled this poem “A Poem for Mia.” Despite the fact that I have award winners like “Dear Rosebud” and “Love’s Journey” posted up here of which I am very proud, I can honestly say that I am just as proud of the work I did on this potential future award winner.

Unknowing Hearts

Wrapped in the passion of the moment

engulfed in a cascade of a emotion

carried by a gushing torrent of desire

dancing on the rapids of uncertainty

two unknowing hearts intertwined

in the rapture of blinding passion

rush toward forbidden waters.

In the midst of love’s blissful chaos

will two unknowing hearts whirl

perilously over confusion’s cliff

and plunge helplessly toward

the jagged rocks of ill-fated love,

or will two unknowing hearts

be found desperately clinging

to the last branch of innocents?

Unsung Heroes Of The Predawn Light


We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.

No we may never have fought in a great war,

or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.

People wave to us, but few know who we are

and most on a good days run could care less.

Like the organ grinder’s monkey from days of old,

we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.

We do a job few would even consider doing

and most would not even attempt to try.

A job burdened with ever growing responsibility

due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.

A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession

designated part-time by thoughtless administrations

that mouth how important we all are once a year

only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.

If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years

without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb

on the altar of a fearful self-serving public face,

you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.

We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.

The tolerant souls that routinely put up with

a few rude demanding manipulative parents

and their insolent misbehaving little darlings

just to be able to serve the greater majority

of decent well-meaning thoughtful parents

and the precious treasures of tomorrow

they have temporarily entrusted to us.

Like a hamster running on a little wheel,

we go around in circles every single day,

but unlike the hamster we must summon

every instinct and learned skill to insure

every turn we make is executed flawlessly.

We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel

by the deliberate hands of a caring heart

and the many small souls seated behind us

that come to trust us not to make a mistake.

We are the one person in their little lives

that are not allowed to ever let them down

for neither of us may be able to live with it.

We are their school bus drivers…

Written By Poet and former Bus Driver Kim Morrison and dedicated to fellow school bus drivers everywhere.

Hey Stop Calling Him Retard Joe You Guys

School Bus drivers always have stories to tell and most of them come directly from the children who once our rode our buses. This one is no exception, but it is also a fine example of how kids themselves through laughter can overcome what we have all come to call bullying. Many years ago I had a student on my bus that was slow and he talked a bit funny because of it. The other students used to tease and pick on him constantly by calling him “retard Joe.”  I would yell at them often for picking on this kid, but as hard as I tried these little wise guys always found a way to get a “retard Joe” remark or two in during just about every trip. One special day, Joe finally had it up to the top with their crap and decided to take matters in his own hands. Out of the blue Joe stands up from the front seat and turns to all the students seated behind him and yells: “I not wetarded! I just stupid!”  Well the whole bus load of students just roared into a laughter, so loud that I am certain it was heard a half a block away. What made matters worse is I started laughing so hard myself that I had tears in my eyes and had to pull the bus over just to regain my composure.  At that point, I looked back at Joe and he was standing there behind his seat looking at me as if to be asking why is everybody laughing? I guess it suddenly hit him in that instant why what he had said made everybody laugh because he began to laugh even louder than the rest of us. I don’t know if the laughter erased all of Joe’s pain from being picked on, but I can tell you that not one of those students ever called him “retard Joe” again from that point on.  Some of the same students that once picked on Joe went out of their way to talk to him and the kid they once called “retard Joe” became Jojo to all of them.  The moral of this story is never underestimate anybody because even someone who is a few fries short of happy meal can have a moment of stunning brilliance and teach us all a life lesson.

Unfortunately, even well-meaning people will call people like Jojo “special” without realizing that what makes them unique is their ability to laugh at themselves, not the fact that they are slow.  It should be painful for all of us to watch someone, like Jojo, being picked on by others, but what we too often fail to recognize is that when we see this kind of thing happening we could in fact be witnessing the slow destruction of a genuinely good hearted person and in this day and age that is a Goddamned shame. Jojo has been out of school for years now, but old Mr. “K” still talks to him on Facebook once in a while and he writes exactly like he speaks.

Dear Rosebud

Dear Rosebud:

The morning dew gently caresses you

like the faint whisper of a young child’s kiss.

Your limbs yearningly reach for the sun

as if awaiting a long lost lover’s embrace.

Only a pair of vacant eyes could fail to see

the wonderful symphony of color waiting to be.

If allowed to come into full bloom uninterrupted,

butterflies will dance liltingly across your awakening splendor

as honey bees sing praises to your blossoms burgeoning bounty.

I can only pray your thorns grow sharp and rugged enough

to defend against the groping hands of life’s wickedness.

Only the desires of the most savage hearts would ravage

a still unfolding beauty and extinguish a spectacle yet to be.

Only a vile pair of ears could fail to hear a shattering heart

and the soul deafening screams of a rose picked too soon.

Love dad…


                       Why me God?

                          Why must you call me home now?

                          This is not fair.

                          This can’t be right.

                          I want more life.

                       Why can’t I have another tomorrow?

                       Why me God?

                          I have endured what was dealt to me.

                          I have suffered.

                          I have felt loss and sorrow.

                          I am no stranger to pain.

                       Why can’t I have another tomorrow?

                       Why me God?

                          I know I am no Saint.

                          I know I am not perfect.

                          I did the best I could.

                          I always tried to do the right thing.

                       Why can’t I have another tomorrow?

                        Why me God?

                            My time here was way to brief.

                            Why can’t I stay a little longer?

                            My family still needs me.

                            Why do you summon me now?

                         Why can’t I have another tomorrow?

                         Why me God?

                             Why can’t I have another tomorrow?

                              No more pain to endure

                              Unconditional love

                              Absolute freedom

                          Oh God! …Now I see the light.

Love’s Journey

Two glistening bodies writhing torridly

on sparkling white sand under a lover’s beckoning moon

savagely captured in the intertwining vines

of surrendering passion and unquenchable lust

rocking to the penetrating rhythm of the waves

lashing against the surf in endless repeat

hopelessly adrift on the sea of their own love

swept away by the emotional vitriol of a tide within

living only in the torrent of now not knowing  or caring

what the breaking light of dawn will bring.

Will the loving hands of destiny scoop our lovers up

and hold them securely against her breasts,

or will they be snared in the treacherous

whirlpool of deception and spiral helplessly downward?

Will their love be a enduring living masterpiece for all to admire and emulate,

or will it be a frozen monument to what once was forever to dwell in love’s abyss?

With their frail hands clasped together two aging lovers walk along a moonlit beach

remembering a night long ago when their desires caressed the sand under their feet

forever mindful of the divine intervention that helped them along life’s perilous journey.