About mickeypamo

I danced with the Harkness Ballet of New York from 70 to 73. I continued to dance till I was 50 when I was waylaid by 4 hip surgeries from 2007 to 2011, leaving me chronically ill, but content. After getting a bachelor's and master's in English (1989 and 1992 respectively), I started, in my last few years of dance, to use my writing with solo choreography, ie., performance art stuff. I've worked at University of Cincinnati' College-Conservatory of Music as Director of Publications, completely revamping their alumni magazine; at UC's Center for Women's Studies as Publications Coordinator; and at Morehead State University as Director of Publications and Printing Services. My current home-publishing service (for book design, editing, promotional work, etc., since 1997) is http://TheKarmaPress.com. I concentrated on poetry in university. I read Karma Tarot cards from a Tibetan Buddhist perspective in Cincinnati, OH. I continue to dance in my heart and my hands and anything else still moving after 4 hip replacements . . . like most aging dancers. I continue to seek compassion and wisdom, and will do so till I transform out of this lifetime . . . and beyond

Happy Inter-dependence

Happy Interdependence Day! Love each other!
–photo by CMR

Happy Independence from America! 

Today I celebrate my independence from the ugliness

of America’s past

declare my disconnection from its rigid spirit,

my independence from its caustic politics,

and claim my ancestry among those who reveled in the woods,

the mountains,

the lakes,

the stones,

the trees

of this magnificent continent.


I am an American.

Among the Chippewa, the Sioux, the Lakota . . . the Micks

from Ireland.

We are of them.

We honor what they honor,

and so,

we are Americans.


Silent Expressions: Cincinnati Ballet, c.1990

–photos by mickey [Michele] morgan

I did my best, and I know I’ve made errors here, so help me out, Cincinnati Ballet Veterans! (many thanks to Rene Micheo)

Trinidad Vives and the late Antonio Souza in “Swan Lake”
Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Daniella Buson and Marcello Angelini in Ben Stevenson’s “Three Preludes”
Marcello Angelini and Daniella Buson in Ben Stevenson’s “Cinderella”
Mauricio Wainrot’s “Anne Frank”


Piet Mondrian, 1909

The birds are beautiful today. I remember no other day have they sung such an integrated symphony. Then I hear why:

“Who’s responsible for cleaning up this dead thing?” “Uh. I dunno . . . yeh, ‘t’s a dead bird, I guess.”

The winged beauties circled wide and high above their lost child . . . and sang and cried to each other all morning.

The Act of Witnessing


“Girl with Green Shawl”–Moise Kisling, 1919

The Act of Witnessing


She faces the settled form;

densely bound beneath an auburn down,

olive skin like mama’s belly

curves and cups bulb

eyes that seem so ready

to roll out wetly,

not competently contained

by fences of thick thorn lashes;

filament fingers flutter above

the hollow curve of loss.

Words form by compression—

the bend of the torso,

down and in, then out,

suspended for a moment—

mauve lips are fragile vines.

Words spill, scattering

as does she as she


chestnut crystals.

To Villa Pamphili

woman in red dress standing on gray road

Photo by Oliver Sjöström on Pexels.com

To Villa Pamphili


Start running

from the door

up the steps

urine smell

of cats

to the corner.


spills to gutters

and the sidewalks

stain with grease.

Run past the curb

to the other,

up the pavement

to the station

where the boxer

growing old,

and now retired

pumps his gas,

flatters men

he doesn’t like 

yet bows a formal


to a woman

running forward

wanting back

all the body

 she once had.


Rhythm though


she knows she

must stay with it,

jog to find

an equili-

brium and make it

past the stores

with their trinkets,

and the cars

buzz like gnats,

shrill her ears,

fill her lungs

with veils of fumes.


packed with bodies,

bunched up stems,


of stinking weeds.


And run

past the church

that is empty

always empty

save for hefty


rosaried women,

stub hair back,



slide in shoes

worn from shopping,

cooking, cleaning,

stooping, taking

care to serve.


to the villa

up ahead.



shot with holes

of cannonballs

from the time of Garibaldi.


That’s the outside.

And the ramp

will take her inside


through the portal.


to the open, to the garden

that has been here while she was running.

Feel the pulse receding as she leaves what’s

outside, slowing breathing, walking over bones sedate

in their rest, birds, squirrels, chipmunks.

Water flows over rocks, obedient to no

force but their own. She lies down with them.

Cincinnati Millenials Die-in and Protest in 1991 . . . and the beat goes on

photos by mickey morgan

1991 protest A


1991 protest B


1991 protest C


1991 protest D


1991 protest E

A Die-In,

sponsored by students of the Univ. of Cincinnati’s Center for Women’s Studies


1991 protest F


1991 protest G


1991 protest H


1991 protest I


1991 protest J


1991 protest K


1991 protest M


1991 protest N











Willing Loss . . .

building vintage bike monument

Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

Willing Loss . . .

We agree at the top of the hill

and swing into place on our seats

of a blue-fendered Huffy two-wheeler.

You flatten flush on my spine,

your chin bonily leaning to see down my shoulder.

You have to hold up your feet.

I put one of mine to the down pedal,

scuff-hop twice with the other

trying the double load but ready.

I lift up my paddling foot, depress the up pedal, one

mighty shove and we’re off down the hill.

I push into wind as my legs

propel in–your trust so firmly

with me–insert our forms to cut

the scene of house, arport, street

and curb in half as we wheel past.

I throw us through, increase the speed,

nostrils shrilling with air.

We ride by shove

of loose limber legs that pivot

knees and thighs looser and light

till the bike takes us down

the hill of her own accord;

the pedals takes over control

of my soles, pushing up, lifting till

I do nothing, carried to madly pedal

against my will, then soles flung up and astray

and you sound it for us, one long coo

as handlebars figurey-eight

in my palms, hollow of force

and it has us–bodies

scintillant, time


–by mickey (Michele) morgan