She said to me
Yesterday, that she
Does not like to see
The rain.
On my way
Through the park yesterday
Slow droplets of rain
Fell from the trees,
And I heard
Birds sing.
How strange it is to me
That she should see
No beauty in these
Rain, and birds, and trees.
A schoolgirl you were
When you passed me by.
And I
Was unaware
Now, with grey hair,
I smile
At a girl who, without guile
Does Say
“I passed you by
On my way to school”.
A girl of no more than 21,
Talking to a guy
of 51.
Then, she is gone,
Leaving me to my
beer,
And the thought that each year
Slides away.
And I can not be certain
When the curtain
Will end the play.
“I like the cover
On your bed”,
You said.
It is easy to discover
Breasts and legs.
But what of what
Lies inside
A girl’s head?
I think not.
I can choose
To wind my clock,
Or not,
As the case may be.
But, if I lose
The key,
Time will not stop
For me.
Stilettos purchased with gold,
Delight at night.
But heels grow old.
When clever men
Hear the clock,
They say,
“We do not
Accept the concept
Of time”.
And the poet composes
A simple rhyme
About roses,
Past their prime.
Girls of a certain kind
Prey on his mind.
Black, white or asian.
Girls for any occasion
Can be delivered to his house,
At the click of a mouse.
Or, he can make a girl fall
For the price
Of a phone call.
Is there, objectively
Such a thing as vice?
Company isn’t free
And one must pay the price,
He thinks.
In a darkened corner, the devil winks.
He calculates,
And being alone,
Picks up the phone,
And dates.
I recently shared a link to my “selected Poems” with a colleague, and was delighted to receive the below review from her by email:
“Wow I’ve managed to read a through and I love your poetry.
Very eloquent and soft”.
For “The Selected Poems of K Morris” please follow this link, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/.
A rose,
So unposed.
It’s petals,
Naturally spread,
And settled
In it’s bed.
A flash
Of bright light,
As the photographer composes,
Cash,
Out of roses,
For the connoisseur’s delight.
Lashed to the mast,
You ride
The tide
Of pain and pleasure.
The weather
Is hot.
Sirens sunbathe,
And say, “let go”.
You know
You ought not,
But the girls are so hot,
And the reef
Of grief
Below
Seems hidden, and all you see
Is a beautiful she.
So, you let go
And, at your leisure
Go down
And drown
In the sea
Of pain and pleasure.
But, long
‘Ere you did see
Those cold, calculating eyes,,
You recognised
Her siren song.
And yet
You did choose
To lose
Yourself in the sea of regret,
Where men go down
And drown,
And drown again,
In pleasure, and pain.
K Morris - Poet 