Monthly Archives: August 2019

Milk

We go about our humdrum lives whilst others are suffering the pain of loss.

K Morris Poet's avatarK Morris - Poet

“He’s dead”
She said.
What to say?
Meaningless words
Of sympathy, by her probably only half heard
While thinking “I must get away,
The shop will soon close
And heaven knows
I am out of milk. Well nearly so.
Poor lady how will she go
On without him?”
A short walk and I am in
The shop where once they together went
And spent notes that crumble into dust.

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There Once Was A Virile Young Man

There once was a virile young man
Who, on seeing a passing pram,
Doffed his hat
To the mother,
And said, “I once had a lover,
Who looked a lot like that . . .!”.

My Blog Is A Place Of Life And Death

My blog is a place of life and death.
A few who have commented here have lost their breath
And gone to a great, silent house
Where no word is heard
And the click of mouse
Is, forever staid.
They have their part played
In the blogasphere
And now are memorialised here
Through their comments, some may choose to peruse.
But should you click on a link to their blog, it may well be dead,
Or say
“He passed away
And this site his friends retain so that you may
Read what he, who is dead,
Once said”.

Others comment still
And will,
I hope continue to do so
For a long time to come
As their words enliven this site,
Yet none of us know
When our night
May come
And take us to a place
Where we
Are, forever free
Of technology,
But perhaps our words wil live on
After we are gone
In virtual pages
Or through printed book
Where, in future ages
Readers will look
And maybe remark
“He has gone to the dark,
But he had something to say
Which is why
I read him today”.

Ghosts under Lamp Posts

Do lamp posts
Show, by their fitful glow
The ghosts
Of sinners long ago?
And, on seeing that fitful glow
Do dying men go
Back, down that dark track
And perceive
Ghosts under lamp posts.
And, if so
Do they grieve
For the money spent
On cheap scent
Long ago?
Perhaps it is so,
But That, I can not know.

When A Young Man Named Coker

When a young man named Coker
Said, “your poetry ’tis mediocre”,
I gazed into the fire
And replied, “do you admire
“This poker, my late friend coker?”

Muddy Revisited

“Muddy” first appeared here in 2016. Looking at the state of British politics, and the world in general, I feel impelled to share this poem again.

Thoughts muddy
I will forsake
And take
Refuge in my study,
Among poets who speak
Words that endure beyond a week.

I shall sit listening to birdsong.
The long
Summer days willimperceptibly turn
Into Autumn. I shall the world spurn
And yearn
For Keat’s Nightingale.

A Young Lady Who Comes From Kent

A young lady who comes from Kent
Has all her money spent
On expensive gifts for me,
Which is strange, you see,
I’m married to a girl from Ghent!

Change

Changing faces.
So many graces
But, always, the same change.

Exchange of faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Passing faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Rearrange of faces.
Long lost graces,
But, the same, inevitable, change.