I gave a young lady
A copy of my poetry.
She likes my verse
And, for better or worse,
Having read my poetry
Knows something of me.
For, through my art
I reveal
A part
Of my heart.
Maybe,
‘Tis the better part
That she
Does see.
Conservatives speak of radical change,
Whilst Socialists say
Everything will stay
The same,
For that is the Conservative way.
And perhaps some long dead Tory squire,
bemused and confused,
By this desire
For change,
Turns in his sleep
And mutters,
“I thought Conservatives where there To keep
Things the same”.
But, no one hears the words he utters.
This solitary park.
This winter sky
And I.
Soon, it will be dark.
Is there shame
In not knowing a girl’s name?
Maybe it is so
When you go
To the place
Wherein
Grace
Gives way to sin.
And what if her name
Be false,
But you waltz,
Just the same.
Is there shame
In a waltz
With a girl with a false,
Or no name?
She has agency,
But is free,
Is she not?
And in your hot
Passion,
A name
(and compassion),
Is soon forgot,
Is it not?
Oh churchyard tree
You will outlast me
And your branches provide shade
To lad and maid,
Though I go below.
Yet, in the end,
My churchyard friend,
Thee and me
Having our lives run
Must both succumb
To mortality.
Leaves creep in
And grin
At me, from the floor.
There are more
Outside, piled high
by The wind.
They can be cleared away
But, there can be no denial
That, one day
I to, shall be swept away
Along with these, fallen, leaves.
On an early winter evening,
In the darkening park,
I thought on beginnings,
And leaving.
Then, on my way home,
Alone,
I heard a couple behind.
They passed, out of sight,
Into a cold, December night,
Leaving me behind.
I saw a portrait
Of Lord Salisbury smile,
And heard the late
Bevan turn in his grave.
Corbynites are in denial,
While
One-nation Tories say,
“Disraeli will save
The day”.
Salisbury continues to smile,
While
The bereft,
Left
Remain, in denial.
When
Young women say,
In a conversational sort of way,
“I wasn’t born
When
You did such and such”,
Then
My heart does warn
Of dust.
Though I
Suspect, ’tis lust,
Which is last to die.
Today is general election day.
The sun must
Rise on Johnson or Corbyn.
Soon, manifestos will gather dust,
Or be re-read with a cynical grin
By people who will say,
“You promised such and such
On election day”.
Then, in disgust
They will throw the thing away.
Oh the joy
For girl and boy
Of yet, another, election day!
K Morris - Poet 