In the desert of the heart
Any touch may start
A flame
Any hand
May command
A hot
Flush
(Wanted or not),
But who are we to rush
To blame?
Is this thing called shame
A social construct that keeps us low?
Many prefer not to go
Down that path
Of enquiry. They laugh,
Make a smutty joke
And on their own hypocrisy choke.
There was a young author named White
Who stayed up late to write.
He went on Facebook
For a quick look
And remained there until the morning light!
The writer, Edgar Alan Poe is noted for his tales of horror and his dark poetry. Those thinking of Poe will, in all probability recollect his dark poem “The Raven” and stories such as “The Fall Of The House Of Usher”. Po was, however also capable of satire as is demonstrated by his short story “The Devil In The Belfry”.
“The Devil In The Belfry” is a satire on a small dutch town in which nothing changes. The inhabitants of the place are contented to live with their clocks which all keep perfect time and are governed by the timepiece in the steple of the town hall, the latter being attended to by a very important gentleman who is looked up to by the townspeople.
The good people of this unchanging world find joy not merely in clocks but also in cabbages which proliferate in the place. Indeed these nourishing vegetables grow not only outside but can also be found adorning the mantlepieces of every home.
Fun for the boys in the town consists of appending watches to the tails of cats and pigs, while their fathers smoke contentedly on leather bottomed chairs and the women cook indoors. But, unhappily this blisfull life is turned up-side-down.
To read Poe’s story please visit, http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper/poe/belfry.html
In the early morning,
Stretching, yawning
I see
The world drear
With all it’s fear.
Or is it me
I see?
There was a young lady named Ruth
Who invariably told the truth.
Her friends disappeared one by one
Until all of them where gone.
They found her most uncouth!
There was a young lady named Holly
Who stole my favourite brolly.
I met an au pair
Upon the stair.
Her name was Louise or Molly.
—
There was a young lady named Holly
Who stole my favourite brolly.
My wife found me with an au pair
Who’s name was Flair
And whacked me with a trolley!
Conscience uncontrolled screams
In dreams.
In the lair
Of nightmare
The pretence of day
Is stripped away.
If you would discern
Me, then turn
And look behind
My smile to find
What lies within my heart.
But you do not possess the art
To traverse the curse of another’s dreams
There was a young lady named Flow
Who’s morals where rather low.
We sat down together
In the scented heather
And the rest you shall not know …
Far and near
Oft I hear
The echo chamber resound
With the sweet sound
Of those who play,
Day after day
The game
Of fame.
Sometimes I join in
With the happy din,
Or with a cynical grin
Stay away.
But o how tempting it is to play
The game
Of fame.
There was a young journalist named Lou
Who wrote a story that wasn’t true.
A lawyer called Moat
Composed a strong note
In which he threatened to sue!
K Morris - Poet 