In Defense of old books
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Category Archives: creative writing
Inert
Who is the guilty one?
As the night went on
They both drank to excess.
Her dress
Was short
And her lipstick red, as the quilt On the bed,
when he brought her home
Alone.
Did she say “no or yes”?
A short dress
Is not an invitation
And a man’s anticipation
Is no excuse
For abuse.
Friends saw her flirt,
But she lay inert
On the quilt.
Who wilt
Judge their guilt?
There Was A Young Man Called Sun
There was a young man called Sun
Who always liked to pun.
His puns where so bad
That they drove his friends mad,
While the ladies would turn and run!
She Enters A Door
She enters a door
And leaves no more.
Another exits into the street,
(The same face, hands and feet),
But not as before.
The Thunder Came Last Night
The thunder came last night
But there was no flash of light,
Just a reverberating rumble
And the tumble
Of rain.
Spellbound, by Emily Brontë
Emily Brontë is best known for her novel “Wuthering Heights”, which was published in 1847. She did, however also write poetry one of which, “Spellbound”, is a favourite of mine and is reproduced below:
“The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go”.
I Stood Aside
I stood aside, allowing him to pass,
Along the woodland path.
“Thank you” he said.
I
Dordled,
Allowing
Him
To
Get
Well
Ahead.
I seek the company of men
When in the mood
For repartee,
But why do they intrude
On sky,
And tree
And me?
Summer
Summer unlocks
Youthful passion.
Now ‘tis the fashion
For short frocks
And tiny socks.
Some girls barefoot go
For of a summer’s day,
They little know
That winter snow
Is on its way
False Nails
Her blood red claws.
He implores
Her false nails,
As with her feminine arts
She impales
Men’s hearts.
Free Verse
Shall I write a poem in free
Verse?
Sometimes it seems perverse
To me
To be
Free
K Morris - Poet 