Safe in my flat
In the early morning
I hear the birds
And ponder on cats.
There is no divine
Merely the purring feline,
Part of great nature.
The imponderable creator
Of little man.
Safe in My Flat
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Category Archives: musings
A Girl’s Long Nails
Your long nails brushed
Against my startled fingers.
A thing not meant,
Yet the memory lingers.
Some other will explore
To their full extent
The pleasure of nails,
Not for me meant.
We Maintain the Urbane
We maintain
The urbane
And are witty
In the city.
But those who hark
To the fox’s bark
In the suburban dark
Find the urbane
Hard to maintain
And their wit
Begins to slip
Tree Surgeon
A tree surgeon said to me,
“I cut away the rotten half
Of this old tree
Leaving the better part,
Which may survive and thrive”.
A thought came to me.
Is not our flawed humanity
Akin to that old tree?
But there has been too much lop
And chop at our poor flawed humanity.
Miss Heart Who Loves Art
A young lady whose name is Heart
Is known for her love of art.
With her dear friend Miss Lou
She stars in movies called blue.
And my friend he’s fond of art …
I Walk at a Fair Old Lick
I walk at a fair old lick
And pass many elderly men and women
With their walking stick.
And, should impatience try to master me
I recall that December
Comes to us all.
And find within me a temporary humility.
When A Pretty Young Lady Named Fay
When a pretty young lady named Fay
Said, “all the men they run away!”.
Her friend Miss Bland
Said, “I don’t understand,
As you are a beautiful vampire Fay!”
In Early December
In early December
I heard
The dawn bird
And did remember
Another year
Will soon end.
My friends
Are growing older.
I hear
Pretty young women
Ask me
About family matters.
There will be
No more sinning.
Merely hot tea
And matters
Of domesticity
For me.
I Haven’t Heard the Night Bird for Some Time
I haven’t heard
The night bird
For some time.
Yet his cry
Survives in rhyme
And will outlast
The final blast
That ends
My mind.
Progress
As for me
I do not agree
With the inevitability
Of progress. Good poetry
And friends
Are ends
In themselves.
Give me
Oak bookshelves
Laden with treasures.
These are the pleasures
I would have
To make me glad.
K Morris - Poet 