The wall clock ticks.
We have reached the Winter Solstice.
The ache in my shoulder
Says, I grow older.
But, after tonight
The evenings will slowly turn bright
And bare trees
Bring forth leaves.
The longest day will come.
The winter solstice
Will return once more.
But the great see
Must, one day
Sweep all this away
Leaving nothing behind.
Yet we still dance
A decadent young lady named Lou
Is coming round to mine at two.
We’ll have a lot to drink
But its not what you think!
As the bishop will be there too …!
I met a young lady named Green
Who lives in a washing machine.
We went at great speed
To fulfill that girl’s need,
And then I awoke from that dream!
A shadow in the bathroom glass.
What I see
Is the public me.
And when I pass
There will be
No me to see
Merely soulless glass.
Yet reflected back
In the verse I leave behind
Some may find
In my rhyme
The black
And white we call art.
Now in the mirror I see
The surface me.
And not my heart.
A man who calls himself James
Is known by many other names.
Some call him Nevile
And others the Devil –
I’ve seen James dance in flames!
I heard sirens and birds
As I stood
In the darkening wood.
Later, when the sirens where gone
The birds sang on
As I passed through
The churchyard
Pondering on what is true
“The trees are bare”, you said.
The sun shone
And our 2 dogs ran on
Unaware their autumn
Must come. And a gentle breeze
Blew through grasses.
When young lovers kiss amidst spring flowers
In their urgent need
They fail to heed
How our hours are fragile as glass.
Spring and summer pass.
We come to autumn
And the bare tree speaks of mortality.
I know a young lady named Spink
Who is extremely fond of a drink.
Her and Miss Mabel
Dance on the table
When we gentlemen buy them a drink …
I have been kissed
By passing lips.
They soon move on,
And are gone.
I have met ships
At midnight
Who sail at dawn.
How forlorn
Is the cold light
Of morn
After a sultry night
Of pleasure
In indifferent weather.
When I am gone
My poetry may live on.
And when I go
Others will know
Whether it is so.
While in the cold ground
There is nothing profound
For worms have no time
For fleeting rhyme.
But love to dine …
K Morris - Poet 