There are many ointments
For stings
And similar things.
And, for life’s disappointments
There is art,
Which, though it may not cause the heart
To sing
May, perchance, ease the sting
Of the she
Who rejects thee.
I am rested today.
I shall stay that way,
Getting plenty of sleep
But, sooner or later
This prater
Will, his toil
Cease, and find peace
In nature’s good soil,
For I maintain
That none can foil
The reaper of grain.
Dusk must come,
And the setting sun
Mark Time
For rhyme.
I remember the feel
Of your heels.
You left them behind
For me to find,
And asked me to keep
Them for your return.
You never came.
No need to weep.
For the secret
Of your name
Is safe.
Will I embrace
A girl’s disdain,
or learn?
Sometimes I wish that “progress”
Would stop,
Like the express
Train at Adlestrop,
But it will not.
—
Note: The above was inspired by Edward Thomas’s fine poem, “Adlestrop”, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53744/adlestrop
We say
“He passed away”.
The “d” word
Is often
Not heard.
He is in his coffin
So why this absurd
Fear
Of the “d” word?
Does the Reaper, standing, unnoticed, near
Smile at our denial
That you and I
Shall die?
Larkin took refuge in drink
But, at dawn did think
On death
And felt bereft.
I have now said
The word we dread
To voice.
We have a choice
Over what words are said
But we are nonetheless, dead
In the end
My friend.
Poetry dies
In the poet’s eyes,
Or is it the skies
That turn black
So that he
And thee
Are unable to see?
We listened to music divine.
The wine
Was okay.
I knew
You would stay
For we had arranged it that way,
Love for a day
For which we would pay.
Both, in our own way
There was a young lady called Lou
Who, due to feeling blue,
Went on a roller coaster
With her brand new toaster,
And a pig whose snout was blue!
Sometimes I would
That the bud
Could stay
That way.
In spring
Birds sing
And buds, for an hour,
Flower.
K Morris - Poet 