When a young lady whose name is Fliss
Said, “tis bliss to Kiss”,
Her friend Moriah
Said, “the squire’s looks are dire,
But his wealth, it gives me bliss!”.
—
When the wife of a man named Ted
Found a young woman asleep in their bed,
Her face turned dark
And she made a remark,
But I dare not repeat what she said!
out into the rain I dash.
A flash
Of lightening.
The sky, for a moment brightening
And me wondering
Whether I will survive the thundering
As my guide dog’s harness is part steel,
So its really not ideal …
—
My guide dog needed to pay a call of nature earlier this evening. While I was aware of the rain, I was not cognisant of the storm which suddenly broke overhead. Had I been aware, I certainly would have remained safely indoors! As it was, all ended well.
This is the second poem in a series of six.
The Old Way 2
I’m walking along the Old Way,
And I exult.
Nowhere else are roads so gentle beneath my feet.
Nowhere else would I find the path before me
So soft, and sprinkled with stars.
Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.
Let me just be still and silent
And feel the ground beneath my feet.
I must connect, or re-connect, with the world.
With my world.
Here, I can feel the past as a living thing,
And like a meditation,
I can use this
To still my troubled mind.
When a young man named Coker
Remarked, “your verse ’tis mediocre”,
And I said, “come hither”,
He began to quiver,
As I raised a very large poker!
When they say
“You must be in the progressive way”,
I shall talk
Of my walk
Of earlier today.
Of the wind’s dance,
And of more than one fallen branch.
When old men make a pass
At the youthful lass,
I wonder whether
Either party ever
Look in the glass
And think, “all this will, one day, pass”
Nymphs will play
And hair turn to grey.
The woman (once girl)
Seeing autumn leaves whirl,
May consider the youthful lass,
And think, “all things must, one day, pass”.
The bedroom door is open.
No words are spoken
Passions stir
But noone is there.
Closing the bedroom door,
Memories I recall.
‘Tis all
As it was before.
I can relate to this poem.
This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.
The Old Way 1
I often think the modern world feels like a party,
In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests
Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers
And shouting each other down.
Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;
I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,
Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.
And just to continue with this analogy,
I feel as though I’ve tried the side door
And found it unlocked and,
With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,
I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.
There once was a poet named Lin
Who wrote poems on a baked bean tin.
She composed in free verse,
Which grew progressively worse,
But all the Modernists loved Lin!
When a young lady named Leigh
Dated a debauchee,
Her good friend Kate,
Being a reprobate,
Joined those 2 for tea.
K Morris - Poet 