I
Saw carefree spring kiss
Winter goodbye.
And I
Found bliss
Midst newly opened flowers
That time devours.
I saw summer hot
Take the spring,
But cared not
For I
Was still in love with spring.
I saw autumn come,
With her gentle sun
And knew my hours
Midst sweet flowers
Must fade away.
Now, on a winter’s day
I think on the flower’s bloom
Which is, so soon
Gone,
And on my grey hair,
And I wonder where,
The carefree, spring has gone.
She helped him to choose booze
In a store,
And said, “I am 17,
So can not drink”.
He did think
Her more mature,
But no, some teenage boy’s dream,
And new wine,
Is divine,
But not for the mature.
I handle
The bangle
That did jingle
On your wrist.
There was no tingle
As lips touched lips,
For we, never kissed.
I can handle
The bangle
That now gathers dust.
Love is a potent thing,
And lust,
To, has it’s sting.
A young lady whose name is Pinky
Wore a dress both short and slinky.
She came round to my place
Dressed in fine silk and lace,
To discuss philosophy over a drinkie.
In the churchyard,
A morning bird
Sounded an alarm call,
Then, silence,
fell,
Over all
When a leading gangster, whose name was Mark
Said, “your future is bleak and dark.
As with this big gun
I shall end your fun,
I said, “take a look behind you, Mark!”.
On a cold December evening
I heard
A solitary bird
And sought for meaning
In her song of joy and pain.
Doubtless, I shall do so again
For ’tis easy to see poetry,
Though she, sings not for humanity.
Sean Creighton is running a stall in Croydon, on Sunday 8 December, offering authors the opportunity to display/sell their works. If you are an author and/or poet based in the vicinity, and are interested in participating, please see this link for details, https://seancreighton1947.wordpress.com/2019/12/01/croydon-events-and-news-at-2-december/.
He counts heels at night.
His heart torn
By stilettos worn
By girls, both black and white.
He counts heels at night.
He counts heels at night,
Remembering nameless women.
Recollections of sinning
And delight.
He counts heels at night.
He counts heels at night
And feels
The weight of years
And empty tears
He counts heels at night.
He counts heels at night.
But how does one measure
The pain and pleasure
Of girls in heels
Who pass at night.
Of a winter’s day
The potter may
Warm the clay,
Though he and they
Are but clay.
K Morris - Poet 