Through the open door of the surgery
Comes the summer breeze.
Often the wind sings in the tree
Or plays with leaves
Fallen on the path. And in these leaves
And the windswept tree
I know we are bound for the ground.
When a rude and unfeeling young lad
Said, “your poems are so very bad!”.
I wept full sore
And said, “tell me more!”,
As I soundly thrashed that lad!
Whilst singing a very old hymn
I spied that sinful Miss Lin.
She spoke of pleasure
In the sweet heather,
And I stopped singing that hymn …
She knocks on another lover’s door
Although she’s never seen him before.
After a drunken carouse
She loses her blouse
As with other lovers before.
His mirror has reflected back
The white and black.
Another lover passing through his door
He’s never seen before.
He gives her a token.
His love is spoken,
As so many times before
In cold hard gold
Which opens more than doors.
When Rose took all her clothes off
The dear old vicar began to cough.
The weather being cold
Rose was most bold!
And the vicar he developed a cough …!
When a young man named Dave
Decided to shave on a grave,
And a ghastly ghoul
Called him a fool,
He gave that knave a shave!
In the past, the leisured class
Would have time to feed their minds
In this place of tall bookshelves,
Whilst servants, unseen, would cook and clean.
And the workmen who built this place of stone?
Their names are unknown,
But perhaps a thoughtful member of the upper class
Thought on those who toiled
And oiled the machine
As he sat at his books.
And knew the whole would collapse
Where not each man to play his part
In maintaining the machine.
—
This poem was sparked by a recent visit to Cardiff Castle’s Library https://www.cardiffcastle.com/rooms/library/
The vast majority of my poetry is written in traditional forms (mainly using rhyme). I was therefore interested to come across this blog post on Post Modern poetry https://katyrachelmartin.wordpress.com/2024/07/25/587/
Her hair, smelling of Coconut Oil
Takes me back to you.
She too is black.
Once my passion boiled for you
In coconut scented sheets.
I wonder, does her skin
Leave coconut on bedclothes
And does her man’s nose
Linger where bodies meet?
Do I sin
When I yearn for coconuts
Firm to the touch
And soft skin
I can not touch?
When young women with pretty eyes
And loose thighs flirt
With older guys,
And the onlookers tut in disgust,
Sometimes I think, why the fuss,
For girls with pretty eyes,
The wealthy guys,
And those who now criticise,
All will be dust.
K Morris - Poet 