I want to come in.
The din
I make.
The trees I shake.
I awake
the old fear
Of nature wild and near.
People quale indoors.
There is no applause
when the gale doth come.
Animals run
for shelter
helter skelter
seeking release
from the hurricane’s teeth.
The morning brings peace
And trees
Lying amongst fallen leaves.
He tried to make his verse rhyme
But it became worser and worser.
‘Twas perverse
To see
Dog rhyme with tree.
He cudgelled his brains to produce poetry fine
And was convinced beer rhymes with wine.
Inspiration from the great poets he took
And was certain Emily Dickinson
Was Brontae’s sister
And Heathcliff could not resist her.
Finally from the top of Wuthering Heights
He jumped
Hitting the moors with a plop
But his bad poems
Just would not halt.
It was his very great fault
He did not decease
And leave his readers in tranquillity!
Awakening to the sun’s light
I listen with delight
to wooden wind chimes.
Their music delicate and sweet
has not disturbed my sleep.
Now heres the thing
you can not catch the wind.
It goes where it will
over dale and hill.
As a child it blew
through
our home
whistling in the chimney
as I sat alone
reading many a fable
at our oak table.
The gale inspired no fear
then
and when
I hear
it blowing near
today
I pray
it will blow all this away.
The wind howls
as the environment scowls
on ersatz man
who can
only cower
At nature’s power.
His tower
shiny and new
may see him through
But the old gods wait
And ‘tis getting late.
Thor raises his hammer
Drowning out the yammer
Of man who plays on the Titanic’s dek
an albatross about his neck.
I can add nothing to what is written here. A moving post. Kevin
Sometimes words die on lips
And cruelty strips
Away
The light of day.
Only the rain
And pain
remain.
The wall seemed so high.
Acorns fell as from the sky.
There they would lie
To be collected by you and I.
The acorn’s hard shell.
I remember it well.
The smell of the wood
Natural and good.
Now the wall is to high
And on the other side you lie.
Come visit the stage.
‘Tis all the rage
to see ecstasy without feeling.
Your senses will be reeling
as the lights on the ceiling
reveal her kneeling.
The club will be dark.
She will play her part
to perfection.
You need not fear rejection
for she will never tire.
and your desire
Is her pleasure.
Take your leisure
and find romance.
Come see the robot dance
Everything will fail.
On my new shower rail
is written
“made in Britain”.
Kipling is out of fashion
yet there remains a passion
for things made here.
Caesar’s ghost stands near.
The sneer
On Ozymandias’s face
Has been wiped from it’s place
Leaving only sand
And barren land.
Everything will fail.
On my new shower rail
is written
“made in Britain”.
—
Yesterday I purchased a new shower rail and was pleased to discover that it was made in Britain. This sparked the above poem.
K Morris - Poet 