The weather was chill,
And the park still.
Few birds I heard
On this spring day.
Dickinson spoke, of feathered hope.
I would like to say
That Emily’s feathered thing
Will, through it’s song, bring
To birth a much brighter day.
But things don’t work that way.
When a ghost whose name is Dave
Arose from a most ancient grave
And said, “you should be very scared!”,
I said, “have you not heard
Dave, that I am very brave!”.
I find this song both enigmatic and sinister
He stood to the side of the path
So that I might in safety pass.
I turned my face away
On a beautiful, spring day.
But thanked him with a smile, while
Pondering on what constitutes a safe distance,
And the persistence
Of common courtesy.
And what did he
Think of me
As I turned my face away?
I can not say,
But suspect he understood
As we did pass
Along that tranquil, woodland path.
My poetic well is dry.
A virus of some kind
Slows my body and mind.
Much loved books remain untouched.
Sleep is my friend.
I know not where this will end.
When an elderly gentleman named Pat
Said, “would you like to play snap?”,
I jumped on his fine old table,
With a young lady called Mable.
And the table leg went snap!
The sound of rain reached my ear.
‘Twas no cadence drear
To me,
Simply the rain,
Timeless, wild and free.
There once was a god named Zeus
Who decided a nymph to seduce.
He plied her with fine wine
And on spaghetti rings they did dine.
And he bought her a chocolate mousse!
I love the sunlight
That comes and goes.
It is easy to write
Of eternal night,
And to compose
Flowery verses
About one’s mortality.
But many a poet curses
The reality
Behind his poetry.
An elderly poet named Coker
Wields a mean old poker.
When I said, “your verse is bad!”,
He called me a “rude young lad!”.
It’s painful being chastised with a poker!
K Morris - Poet 