The women come and go.
But talk not of Michaelangelo.
One drunk on booze
Leaves her stiletto shoes
Behind for Prufrock to find.
No mermaids sing for him.
But the girl was slim
And provided some delight
To a poet’s night.
When he turns to write
He finds that Miss Follett
Has taken his wallet,
And ponders on the Wasteland
Which a few understand!
A young lady who calls herself Honey
Likes to dress as the Easter bunny.
After food and wine
We crossed that line –
Then that bunny she stole my money!
Happy Easter to all of my readers!
In my adulthood
I passed by the tree
Well known to me
In my childhood.
It stands by a path
Where many have passed
That old tree
Without a glance or sigh.
Our lives move fast
As we rush to catch
Some form of transport.
And we all are caught
In time’s great web.
All our loves and lusts
Must turn to dust.
And even this great tree,
Which will outlast me,
Will be dead
Sitting on the platform,
Waiting for my train to stop,
I thought of Adlestrop.
I yawned.
Someone lit a cigarette.
Noone complained
And no authority figure came.
I hated that cigarette
And prayed for a train.
Yes I remember Adlestrop
And the poet’s name.
—
The above poem came to me as I sat at Gipsy Hill railway station in south-east London. I doubt the gentleman who shared his cigarette with those on the platform (including me), has heard of Edward Thomas. I suspect he has no care for poetry. He certainly had no consideration for his fellow commuters.
On a late March day
The spring hides away.
The sun may come
Interspersed with cold rain.
Perhaps I should go
In search of a rainbow
For I am told
That rainbows lead to gold.
I doubt tis so
But a rainbow
In a poor poet’s heart
Is surely art
And worth more than gold.
I know a young lady named Amanda
Who says that I don’t understand her.
She is slim and petite
And lives on my street
And I’ve seen her walking her panda!
I met a young lady named Amanda
Who comes from a place called Uganda.
She called me sweet honey
And spent all my money,
Then escaped whilst dressed as a panda!
When a young lady brandishing whips and chains
Said, “do you like a girl with brains?”,
I said, “dear Lou,
I most certainly do!
But please can you stop brandishing those chains!”
I heard children at play
On a spring day.
Their voices full of pleasure
In sunny weather.
The ice cream van came,
Then the wild wind
And the rain
Came and shook the glass
In my window frames
And reminded me
Of man’s fragility.
“A Century of Nature Stories”, left on a ledge
In a bare room.
Did perfume
Once linger here?
A spinster lived and died
In this place
We made our home
For a little while.
“A Century of Nature Stories”,
What did that mean to you?
An old tome
Left in your former home?
I recall horses on the wall
Of my bedroom.
I think you would have approved
But I will never know
For you died long ago.
I regret we never met.
The memory of that book has stuck with me
And I would like to ask you
What it meant to you.
You came from a different age.
I imagine you would have engaged
With books
And the garden with the Crab Apple Tree.
What would you have thought of this age
Obsessed with technology, where quiet
Is so often replaced by formless riot, of people
Who have lost
What they can not regain,
And I can not explain.
You where anchored in your home and time.
I have a rhyme
Of a lady I never knew
And thoughts of what may be true.
Or at least half true.
K Morris - Poet 