I open my window
And let in his cry
With the chill night air.
He is out there
Somewhere in the dark park,
Or the churchyard nearby.
I closed my
Window against the chill air.
He remained there,
(For how long I
Can not say).
Then his cry
Seemed to fade away.
A house of stopped clocks .
Where, when,
He attempts to wind them,
Wise men
Say, “why not try
Some new batteries today …!”.
In my younger days
I played
With many a maid.
Now my clock
Has stopped.
Yet still I rhyme
Of Father Time.
But all clocks wound
Must run down
A poem written some years back, which I had forgotten until I came across it recently.
Entranced, he watched the dance,
As the girl
Did whirl,
Her feet
Kicking up the dust
Of poets, and dancers,
And other chancers,
Who you may meet
And pass, on the street
Without a second glance.
And the age-old dance
Goes on,
But the dust
Of those long gone
Is not disturbed
By a young woman’s dancing feet
When I last passed
This way
I recall no wall
Of wild wet flowers.
That bloom
In May
In the summertime
Flowers will bloom
Still. But in wintertime
Who will recall
This rain-kissed wall
Of springtime and rhyme.
When a poetical young man named Ray
Recited a poem which was most risqué,
A young lady named Hocking
Lost more than her stocking,
And me, I discussed poetry with Ray!
A fleeting connection.
A middle-aged poet’s introspection.
You danced by
And I
Saw youth
And your love of art,
And felt an answering spark
In my poet’s heart.
There is truth
Of a kind
For you to find
Should you truly look
Behind my book.
You will dance away
And, at some future day
May remember a middle-aged poet
Who gave to you
Something of what is true.
When a poet whose name was Ron
Said “my poetry will surely live on”.
An old man called Brian
Warned him of a lion,
Which devoured all his poetry and Ron.
I yawn
In the early morn.
A bark
Pierces the dark.
The carpet is warm
Against my bare
Feet. While out there
The fox’s word
Is heard
Ere I sleep.
When a dangerous young man named Neil
Said, “you’re going to feel cold steel!”,
A brave girl called Jagger
Grabbed hold of that dagger,
And I composed a poem about Neil …!
K Morris - Poet 