An elderly libertine named Fred
Lay upon his deathbed.
His young mistress walked by
And said, with a tear in her eye
“Won’t you sin, one more time, ere your dead?”
—
An elderly libertine named Fred
Lay upon his deathbed.
When his young mistress walked in
He said, with a grin
“I shall sin,
One more time, ere I’m dead!
I find
That scorpions of the mind
Run rampant in sleep.
To keep
Them at bay
I shall away
And write.
They caper
On paper.
But the thing
Is they will
Return to sting
And bite.
At night.
Therefore To still
The thing that would kill
I must write.
—
“Oh, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives”.
Macbeth: Act 3, scene 2.
There was a young man named More
Who said “impure thoughts I do abhor!”.
He took numerous cold showers
Which lasted for hours.
These soon put an end to More!
Going to bed
I shed
My skin. When I awake
I shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor.
One day
I shall go away
Leaving my skin
To be sold in
Some charity store.
Rummaging through bags on the floor
Maybe some shopper will buy
A piece of me.
Perchance a thoughtful soul may wonder why
My skin came to be there.
Or, more likely they will not care
For bargain hunting is the new thing, and besides, giving money to a good cause
Oft results in applause.
—
Going to bed
They shed
Their skin. When they awake
They shall take
It up once more
From chair or floor …
A hustle.
A tussle
Of thighs.
One-sided sighs.
A girl’s blank eyes.
Both will pay
Each in their own way.
Some see shapes gray
And say
“They are ghosts”.
Others perceive
Only bedposts
And grieve
For the naive
Fool
Who does believe
In spooks
And ghoul.
The rationalist takes refuge in books
But, on a dark night,
When the electric light
Fails
Even the sceptic sometimes pales
At the unexplained draft
Or shadows on the walls.
As he recalls
Nursery tales.
“I am daft”
He will say,
While fervently praying for the coming of day.
I penned the below poem on 8 December 2015. The last month of 2015 was particularly mild which prompted me to reflect on climate change, hence the below composition.
December 2017 has, on the whole been rather cold (as one would expect in the depths of winter). While Christmas day itself was rather mild in my part of the UK, today (26 December) is much colder and I was glad of my coat when walking my guide dog, Trigger earlier in the morning.
“December?” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Lost In The Labyrinth Of My Mind”, which is available (ebook only) from Amazon, and as a paperback from Moyhill Publishing.
“It is too warm for December.
I remember
other years
When tears
Would freeze
And an icey breze
froze
the stinging nose.
No need for winter clothes.
The weather grows
Strange.
Something is deranged.
All, all is changed”.
There was a young lady named Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The weather was extremely cold
And I am told
That she turned blue in her little short dress.
—
There was a young lady named Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
A young man walking by
Said with a sigh
“Impure thoughts I must go and confess!”.
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl most fair
(Her name was Clare)
And this limerick is truly a lie!
—
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl most fair
(Her name was Clare)
And their dog had only one eye!
—
There was a young man named Guy
Who lived on the Isle of Skye.
He married a girl named Clare,
But her sister called Flare
Ran away with that young reprobate Guy!
I would like to wish all my readers a very happy Christmas. May your Christmas be full of peace and joy.
My own view of Christmas is best summed up by the poet, Thomas Hardy, in his poem “The Oxen”. As with Hardy, I would go down to the “barton” “hoping it might be so”.
—
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.
We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.
So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,
“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.
K Morris - Poet 