You and I
Said goodbye
For a little time.
I walk through
Fallen leaves
And compose a rhyme
To Eve
And Paradise Lost.
Paradise
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Adam and Eve
There was a young lady named Eve
Who fell for a guy called Adam.
But she said, “its such a crime
As his name doesn’t rhyme with mine,
So I’ll marry his best friend Steve!”
Roses Smell Sweeter In Childhood
Roses smell sweeter in childhood
Their scent
Being natural and good.
I repent
Of scentless flowers
And myriad hours
Spent trying to grow
What ought not
To grow,
And would,
If I could
Spurn these flowers, purchased on a whim
And return
To a time ere Adam did sin
With Eve.
But I can only grieve
And count the cost
Of Paradise lost.
—
(The reference to paradise lost pertains to Milton’s fine poem of the same title).
The Fall
Verdant flowers.
Lovers under a tree
Taste fruit.
Unnoticed, a serpent slithers.
Sometimes I Would That I Could Write About Flowers
Sometimes I would
That I could
Write about flowers,
Yet the night
Hours slowly pass
And my thought
Runs on lass
And ought?
‘Tis strange how interpretations differ.
Some will
Read a poem “as is”,
But what is “as is?”
When all is still
At night
The poet may
Stay away
And write
A verse
Or, with a curse
Taste the apple of Eve
Although he does know
That he should leave
The fruit, once sweet
Untasted, he will eat.
Pips
Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.
They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.
A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.
Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.
Fallen Fruit
Low-hanging fruit I recall.
I longed to taste,
For some say it is the route
To pleasure. yet
in my haste
To enjoy
I did forget
That the worm does destroy,
And the boy
Should not tempt the fruit to fall.
Morning Rain
Rain falling
Calling
To me as it fell
Casting it’s spell.
Drops on my window tapping.
The sound
Around
Me wrapping.
Eve
May deceive
While Adam and his mate
Learn to late
They did create
The serpent that
Under the Tree of Knowledge sat.
The constant rain
Drumming on my window pane.
The sane
Man
Can
Forgo
The forbidden fruit.
Yet his failure to withstand
The fickle hand
Of pleasure
Is at the root
Of much woe.
He doth Taste
In haste
And repent at leisure.
In the end
Only the Sane
Rain
Will remain,
As we descend
To the place where dreams that shatter
No longer matter
And lover’s inconstant chatter
Is replaced
By death’s blank face.
A Perfect Pare
A perfect pare.
So ripe and fair.
To have you there
A perfect pair.
No one to stare
Where
The perfect pare hangs
Within easy reach of hands
That desire
To quench a fire.
The love of fruit
Is At the root
Of the fall from grace.
A place
Called Paradise, where Eve ate the apple.
The sunlight no longer dapples
Eden’s Lawns
where innocent fawns
Where wont to Play.
Or so the moralists say.
All this will pass away
But I have fruit today …
Fruit
The fruit grows within easy reach.
How simple to take a peach
Or plum.
How delightfully does temptation come.
The juice turns to gall.
Better to let the fruit fall
or be gathered by other hands.
But desire commands
us to pick
and sip.
The devil’s tune seems sweet
and once our feet
begin to dance
We have no chance
To stop
but must waltz until we drop.
K Morris - Poet 