Shall I speak of turtle doves
And innocent loves,
and a world where all are good
And do as they should?
Shall I talk of men upright
Who say “good night”,
And leave,
And never deceive?
Or shall I speak
Of the flesh that is weak
And men who seek
For the discreet door?
I know which you would prefer,
But a circle is not a square
And squire and maid
Are not always staid.
Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.
There was a young model named Louise
Who liked her audience to please.
When she appeared on the catwalk,
The judges reached for a fawk,
As her dress it was made of peas!
Why do I strive, for that which I can not possess?
Is the sun’s caress
Not enough
That I must grasp at other stuff?
Caught
On the wheel
Of thought
I feel
That I aught …
Be done
With useless thinking.
I shall at life’s fountain be drinking,
For existence doth run
Away,
And I can not reclaim a single day
Spent,
In thinking on a nymph’s unknowable scent.
As I grow older, my blood cools.
I shall leave fools
To kick against the rules
And retire
From desire,
For the fire
Has burned me to the core.
The flames roar
On occasions still entices.
But no, I will not haggle over prices!
Fools may pursue their own devices
While I drink
The water that cools
And think
On half-forgotten spices.
To avoid any confusion, the “Kev” refered to here, is not me, but Kev “Kevin) Cooper.
Licence to use image obtained – Copyright: worac 123RF Stock Photo
“Excuse me, have you got the time please?”
“No, sorry”.
In the early hours of this morning (Saturday 26 August), I became conscious of my dog wandering around my home. This is, generally a sign that he needs to go out so (with some reluctance given the ungodly hour), I threw on some clothes and took my restless friend outside. I am not at my best of an early morning. Consequently I received quite a shock when a young woman enquired about the time.
On returning home and checking the time, I discovered that it was 1:41. Idly I wondered what took a young woman out at such a late hour. Possibly she was waiting for a bus (there is a bus stop close to my home). She could, perhaps have been visiting one of the residents of the flats in which I reside, or someone in the neighbouring block. Alternatively …
In any event it occurred to me that a fellow writer out there might like to use this as a writing prompt. If so, I would be interested to read what you write.
Kevin
Once he would wait
In a state
Of needing,
To begin his feeding.
The plate
Would arrive.
Man felt alive
As he ate.
But no,
It was not always so,
For on occasions he would feed
And reluctant to retire,
His greed
Did more desire
Breed.
A wise man did once remark
On this truth stark,
“There is enough for every man’s need,
But not his greed”.
With indifference or hate
Man comes to regard the plate.
But what of the wish
Of the dish?
For do not plates
Have states
Of being?
A dish, itself seeing
Reflected back, in glass
Thinks “alas”,
And wishes for all this to pass.
There was a computer program named Spot
Who knew an awful lot.
He wrote a book
Which the critics mistook,
As a work by a man called Mott!
After a while
The smile
Becomes set
In stone,
And yet
Were we not always alone
Waiting for the telephone to ring?
Or, indeed
Anything
To prevent
The descent
Into looking inside
(for woe betide
That we
Should be faced with me).
Or perhaps we call
For the writing on the wall
Says there is no choice,
But conscience’s voice
Whispers “No
You should not go
There”.
The devil in his lair
Replies “you may be gone tomorrow,
Drown your sorrow
And forget
Regret
In desire’s
Never ending fire”.
We awake
And take
A look inside,
For man can not hide
From himself
In the arms of elf.
“Never again
Will we have such pain”
We say
(and perhaps believe
As ‘tis easy oneself to deceive),
But tomorrow is another day
And the primrose way
Leads gently down to hell
Where dammed souls dwell.
K Morris - Poet 