I flick through
Contacts on my mobile phone.
True they
Make it easy to
Keep in touch by phone
Or text,
Although it does vex
Me that technology
Renders memory
Unnecessary, for why keep
In your head
Numbers stored on the cold phone?
And you sleep
Forever in a house of stone,
Your number, dead,
On my useless phone.
I shall sit under this graveyard tree
And think on Gray’s Elegy.
The ploughman is as a sod
As are the great.
Oft of an evening late
I ponder on Gray
Who, one day
Wrote an Elegy
Which resonates now with me.
His verse will live on
Long after I am gone
And I doubt not
That this tree
Which overlooks this graveyard plot
Will outlast me.
The skin
On my feet
Has toughened with age.
Is it a sin
To think on the soft skin
Of the feet
Of young women
With whom I engage?
It can not be so
For to write a rhyme
Is no crime
And a girl’s feet are a fine
Sight at night,
With their legs bare
To the caressing air.
Although, having removed the stiletto
Shoe, I know
That girls have tough skin too.
Loneliness is tripping over a stranger’s shoe
At dawn
As the forlorn
Light breaks through
And thinking,
“We did a lot of drinking,
And I don’t know whether your name is Flaire
Or Claire.
Perhaps I should care?
At any rate
You filled an empty space,
But now I want you out of my place”.
And the emptiness yawns
As with previous dawns.
Beautiful women
For your pleasure.
You may browse at your leisure.
There will be no sinning
For we
Only offer company,
But, what goes on behind closed doors . . .
We break no laws
But, discerning gentleman will understand
that money may command
a girlfriend
For the night
If the price is right,
But we must both pretend . . .
You do understand that we
Only provide company . . .
Girls in short clothes
Have fun
In the summer sun.
Who knows
Where the summer goes
Park where flowers bloom.
Girls in short dresses
Enjoy the summer sun,
Soon, Autumn will come
The picture stands out against the white
Of my living room wall.
A few birds still call.
A fascination with sunlight
Which, as I watch, slowly dies away.
The night
Takes the day
And the picture we see
Is lost in obscurity
Although we hope that this light
We borrow
Will be seen on the morrow,
But this we can not know.
I have uploaded a number of new pictures to my Instagram which can be found here.
I have also uploaded two new poems to my Soundcloud, which can be found here:
He longed for girls in high-heels,
With soft,
Perfect skin.
But the devil coughed
And reminded him
That he was growing old
And that he had sold
His soul
For lust
To girls in high-heels
Who love gold,
Which crumbles into dust
K Morris - Poet 