On this windy day
In April
I can not say
Whether the flowers I pass
On this woodland path
Will stay
For another day.
I think
That they
Are the same as those
I saw before,
Although I can not say
For sure
Whether it be so.
I suppose
That both I and they
Will see the rain’s tears
In future years,
But this I can not say
For sure.
On Good Friday I gave to you
A geranium in a pot.
We agreed on the need for air.
I know not
Whether you are showing care
To that token
Which, although unspoken
You knew to be true.
And now you have your air
And I mine.
I remember you
On my sofa blue.
No line
Was crossed.
The cost
Was a cheap
Priceless geranium in a pot
You may or may not, keep.
There was a young man named Heart
Who knew nothing at all about art.
When he stole a painting
It led to no fainting,
As it really wasn’t art!
Red lights
Bring delight
For a moment,
On a street.
High-heeled feet.
Men are lost
In arms
They can not own,
Then, alone
Return home.
(This poem was inspired by Lorraine’s “Red Lights”, https://blindwilderness.wordpress.com/2019/04/25/red-lights/).
From tomorrow (Friday 26 April), the British Library will be hosting an exhibition concerning the history of writing. The exhibits include an ancient egyptian tablet which demonstrates that concerns about the quality of homework are far from being new! It also shows that worries regarding the decline in hand-writing are not confined to the 21st century. For more information please visit, https://www.theguardian.com/books/2019/apr/24/living-by-the-pen-british-library-explores-history-of-writing.
Kevin
I met a young lady named Rose
Who last night stole all of my clothes.
I was composing a rhyme to my love
When, great heavens above,
Rose she stole all of my clothes!
I,
know that ’tis easy, when alone
To pick up the telephone,
Or to click on the internet,
And buy,
Regret.
I think of you
Without shoe
Or sock,
But passion’s knock
Will never be heard
So I shall cease this empty word
Play and do something useful with my day.
But, when in the land
Of sleep,
You may creep
Into my head, for I can not command
The shadows of dreamland
Where passion unlocks
And girls lose
Their shoes
And socks …
I know a pretty young miss
Who asked me to give her a kiss,
But I being shy
Said, “I’m not that kind of guy!”,
But that miss she did insist …
The cup which
Touched your lips
Is chipped.
I know
It wasn’t so
When you took
The cup
To your lips.
We both drank tea.
But I did sup
From a separate cup
To thee.
K Morris - Poet 