You left your shoes behind
And it still occupies my mind.
You were neither white nor black,
And there is no turning back
For those shoes you left behind,
Which still occupy my mind.
Your accent was upper class
But, somewhere along the line
Fine
Metal
Did settle
For brass.
You left your shoes behind
And they still occupy my mind.
It is rarely white or black.
And the way
To a brass tack
Is easier than some say.
Whilst walking along a famous old Street
I met with my old friend Pete.
When he said, “today I’m Claire”.
I said, “rhyming poets should beware!
As Claire does not rhyme with Pete!”.
I know a girl called Miss Shakespeare
Who has pulled me many a beer.
The old barman, named Macbeth,
Bores us all to death.
And King Duncan is off his beer.
Caught, between Cassandra and Pangloss,
We know not what
To think. So drink
To the great Pangloss.
But, in our empty glass,
We find the Trojan lass.
Should I repent
Of her sweet scent?
She is free
Yet, her scent
Is costly to me.
Am I responsible for society,
With all of it’s flaws?
Heels click on floors.
And I ponder on the responsibility
Of her, and me, and society.
There once was a poet from Gwent
Who, having all his meagre earnings spent
In his local sauna,
On pretty Miss Lorna.
Composed a poem about paying the rent!
When a silver-haired poet known as Kevin
Said, “I grow ever nearer to sweet heaven
As I turned 52 today”,
A young lady named Fay
Said, “you’re drunk and its not yet 7!”.
When a vicar named Warner
Walked into a backstreet sauna,
And religious Miss Fay
Said, “shall we pray?”.
That greatly confused vicar Warner!
A bench replete
With flowers,
In winter’s wood.
Hours
Incomplete,
Marked by a stone
Clock with lost hands.
We go into the unknown
Wood.
But, perhaps a bench may stand
To commemorate
Those who, of a late
Winter afternoon,
Think on nature’s passing bloom.
A confession
About my obsession
With clocks.
Their ticks
And tocks.
But all obsessions,
Eventually, stop.
K Morris - Poet 