Lost,
Amidst numberless, fallen leaves
The poet sees
The cost
Of it all.
Nymphs play in Autumn’s sun.
Winter must come.
And the poet sees
Half-forgotten leaves,
Whirled by passion’s passing breeze.
I remember you.
Though a brief time
We spent
I recollect your shampoo.
It’s subtle scent
Fades. But a rhyme
May capture the rapture
Of girlie shampoo.
Though never you.
My thanks to Hannah of Echoes in An Empty Room, for including my Selected Poems in her post entitled “Books to Read in Lockdown By Authors You May Not Know”.
For the post please follow this link, https://echoesinanemptyroom.com/2020/11/11/books-to-read-in-lockdown-by-authors-that-you-may-not-know/
The unspoken
Power
Of a flower
Unopened.
It’s heady scent
Does tease
And tempt.
Tis easy to swim
In the sea
Of sin.
And when
Men
Their pleasure crown,
Oh so many men
Go down. and drown.
They found, in old Pompeii
The ruins of brothels.
What will they say
When they find the remains
Of our passing day?
When anthologised
The poet’s work survives.
He dies.
But every pure thought
(And kink)
Is, forever caught
In ink.
Therefore, I think
That the poet, most wise
Ought to shrink
From being anthologised …
The man of pleasure knows
That behind the bright light
And girls of the night,
The rose
Turns to dust.
And all his lust
Will be
As she.
You see them,
Ghosts, standing under lamp posts,
Waiting for men.
And judge them (or not),
As the case may be).
Yet you hear not
The knock
On anonymous door
Of She
You call “whore”.
And, when she
In her heels steals away
Few have anything to say.
And her clientele,
They rarely tell.
Yesterday, in the early morning,
I heard you speak.
Just your bleak
Cry and I,
Ere the light was dawning.
I think on Macbeth
And the impending death
Of another year.
A bird, often unheard,
But forever here.
K Morris - Poet 