As ghosts they come
Often when the sun
Is burning.
And, when the sun
Does set,
Oft you will find
His mind
Turning,
To thoughts of regret.
One day
They
Will no longer come
And the sun
Will, forever set
On his regret.
Some readers may engage
With a yellowing page.
And vampire
And desire.
At school, I read freely
Of Kipling’s poetry.
No one told me
What my thought ought
To be.
Today there is an urge
To purge
His poetry.
Yet, in “Recessional”, we see
The fire of empire die.
They hector
And lecture.
While I,
And those like me,
Retreat into our poetry.
She has long dark hair.
Nothing to bind
Him there.
It is not that kind
Of affair.
She is there
For a time.
Caught in his rhyme.
A something, of art
But no part
Of his heart.
Is the poet’s duty
To beauty?
Art may uglify.
Yet truth is beauty,
And poets lie.
I was delighted to receive a 4 star review of my book, “Light and Shade”:
“This is a short book of contemporary poetry and limericks, many of which are either pandemic themed or in some way fitting to today’s turbulent times.
I enjoyed this book very much …”.
To read the review in full please visit, https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3503147312?book_show_action=true&from_review_page=1.
“Light and Shade” is available in Kindle and paperback, and can be found here https://www.amazon.com/Light-Shade-serious-not-poems/dp/B08B37VVKV (for the paperback edition), and here https://www.amazon.com/Light-Shade-serious-not-poems-ebook/dp/B08B4X3GVX/
When old men
Lust
After young women.
You will find
Dust,
And sinning
On their mind.
I met a lady of pleasure
Whose name was Louise or Heather
I spent much time
In composing this rhyme,
Which delighted that lady of pleasure.
On an autumn day
I touched dead
Leaves on a tree.
I walked away.
But those dead,
Leaves did stay
With me.
You made me happy for a time.
There was no ring, or some such thing.
But that is no crime.
The world continues to turn
And I, long ago learned
That to keep
to rhyme
Is cheap
My open windows.
The wind blows.
The sterile,
Becomes virile.
Autumn must come
Soon. Who will recall
Leaves that fall?
So many men.
Yet there are
Far more fallen leaves,
Than there are men.
K Morris - Poet 