I have not thrown away
That which you gave me the other day.
A worthless thing perhaps,
Yet hope takes time to collapse.
Maybe tomorrow
With a twinge of sorrow
It will be thrown away.
Or, like a coward
I shall put it in a drawer
Where it shall be seen no more
Save only by me,
Though ’tis better to be free
Of both it and thee.
Sitting in my living room
I hear the wind.
It will be gone soon,
And it’s blast
Will outlast
Thee and me.
Stream of consciousness
More or less.
Heels and shopping deals.
She steals
Away.
He will shop another day
When my friend whose name was Ted
Said, “I think I may be dead”,
I made reply,
“You did die,
And your wife she warms my bed!”.
It is a chilly day.
Should I be bold
And say
That I require? desire?
Some heat
To defeat
The cold
For today?
When me and my friend Nell
Went to an exclusive hotel,
And a young lady named Rose
Said, “take off your clothes”,
I said, “Nell, is this a hotel?”
Your hand
Can command
A fire.
Desire burns
Ere it turns
Into pools
Where fools
Drown in sin
While the devil of lust
And dust
Looks on with a woolfish grin.
On this windy day
In April
I can not say
Whether the flowers I pass
On this woodland path
Will stay
For another day.
I think
That they
Are the same as those
I saw before,
Although I can not say
For sure
Whether it be so.
I suppose
That both I and they
Will see the rain’s tears
In future years,
But this I can not say
For sure.
On Good Friday I gave to you
A geranium in a pot.
We agreed on the need for air.
I know not
Whether you are showing care
To that token
Which, although unspoken
You knew to be true.
And now you have your air
And I mine.
I remember you
On my sofa blue.
No line
Was crossed.
The cost
Was a cheap
Priceless geranium in a pot
You may or may not, keep.
There was a young man named Heart
Who knew nothing at all about art.
When he stole a painting
It led to no fainting,
As it really wasn’t art!
K Morris - Poet 