A patch of sunlight on the hall floor.
I close the living room door
And the light is seen no more.
I know the night kills the light
And the ferryman waits to take
Me to the final gate
Where there is no Cerberus
To prevent our escape.
Just what was us
And implacable fate.
I am marrying a young lady named Kate
Who will inherit all of my literary estate.
She says, “writers have money”,
Which I find really funny –
As she’ll inherit all of my literary estate …
I am delighted to announce that I will be reading my poetry at Ashburton Library in Croydon on Saturday 8 November at 2 pm. For anyone who is in the vicinity and would like to attend please follow this link for further information and to book https://croydon.events.mylibrary.digital/event?id=247174
I look forward to seeing you on Saturday 8 November.
The last
Of the summer grass
Is mown.
The future is unknown.
The past
May be a guide.
But we decide
What seed is sown.
But does grass
In the mower’s grasp
Feel itself free …
Caught up in thoughts of work
I heard a bird sing.
I have been touched by beauty
And knowledge of my mortality.
He flies free
While I feel the futility
Of my work
When he sings.
When a young lady named Jacinta
Went and trod on a splinter,
She hopped all around
And said something profound.
And then she cursed that splinter!
The wind is fresh
Carrying the scents of life and death.
While from a tree
The autumn leaves are falling on me.
I lose myself in rhymes
Of passing time
And others who once stood
In autumn’s wood.
My friend collects acorns from leaf-strewn lawns
Hoping that Oaks may grow.
Others may see the fully grown tree.
While we will not know.
If there is no heaven or hell
Then one may as well
Give in to sin.
But they say Hell’s fire is hot
So perhaps better not
Play with pretty Miss Moriah.
Though I have heard the atheists tell
There is no hell.
So I’m going to heaven
With Moriah at 7 …
A man who liked to eat chalk
Said that it helped him to talk.
One day, feeling bored,
He swallowed a blackboard.
Which worked very well with that chalk!
It is often said that the dead
Are, forever, dead
And that only fools believe in ghouls.
But, having read
Of ghosts and vampires. When I retire
To my bed
I feel the dead
Draw near.
And in my troubled dreams I scream
In fear.
Yet ghosts and ghouls
Are for fools –
Or so I hear …
K Morris - Poet 