I scorn
To perform
Like a circus seal.
Slippery as an eel
They are.
A girl may go far
In the ring …
“It is just a little thing
To turn a trick. Do you know
Ms so-and-so?
She was shy
And would “rather die”,
But now it comes easy as water off a duck’s back to her.
Yes people will stare
At you,
I don’t deny that this is true.
But all is fair
In love and war
And there are good tips
For girls who do tricks”.
Whichever way the wind went
The crooked tree bent.
I spent
Much time gazing at that tree,
Which looked back at me
And seemed to say
“As sure as night follows day,
We shall bend together
With the prevailing weather”.
The hill she must climb
Time after time,
And look over the top
To see what is not.
THE smoke upon your altar dies,
The flowers decay.
The Goddess of your sacrifice
Has flown away.
What profit then to sing or slay
The sacrifice from day to day ?
“We know the shrine is void,” they said,
“The Goddess flown –
“Yet wreaths are on the altar laid –
“The Altar-Stone
“Is black with fumes of sacrifice,
“Albeit She has fled our eyes.
“For, it may be, if still we sing
“And tend the shrine,
“Some deity on wandering wing
“May there incline;
“And finding all in order meet,
“Stay while we worship at her feet. ”
There was a young Communist named Neil
Who started the revolution’s wheel.
It whirled round and round
And to the ground
It pinned that revolutionary Neil
“Good morning stranger, I know you well”.
They greet
Under well worn sheet.
“There is no spell
To hold you here
Tis simply the sprinkle,
The familiar tinkle
Of worldly dust
That has thrust
We two together.
In stormy weather
Ships seek any port.
On a wave of need caught
They chance their luck
And sometimes buck”.
There was a young man named Hogg
Who decided to start a blog.
He soon got bored
And remarked “oh lord,
I shall give this blog to my dog!”
A confusion about socks.
A delusion over his and her’s.
“Mine” she said
As she sat upon his bed.
It is an easy mistake
To make,
To take
Something that you should not possess,
Be it an item of dress
Or a smile
Bought for a little while.
There was a man who suffered from introspection,
Which frequently led to dejection.
A surrealist, called Mark
Said “your future is dark,
As you are a mere computer projection”!
A burned child dreads the fire,
They say,
But, as day follows day,
We see that he
Grasps the hot coal
To his soul,
Again and again,
Despite the pain.
The coal burns
And the child turns
Away,
(Perhaps for a day)
Or so.
Yet back he will go,
To that place I know,
Truth to tell,
All too well.
K Morris - Poet 