On this dull day
No girls pass
Before my bedroom glass.
On other days
It has reflected back
The black
And white
Who have relieved
My lonely night.
Sometimes when they leave
I grieve
For the cost
Of lost
Souls. and love
That is not love.
Butterflies fly away.
But no, they stay
Caught in rhymes
Though they know it not.
There was an old lady of Penge
Who advertised her garden rockery as Stonehenge.
Many rich Americans came there
And one known as Claire
Purchased that rockery and all of Penge!
All men fall
But some men
Deny it is so.
But could one go
Into the mind
Of all men
One would find
No angels here below.
I have seen Heaven and Hell
And I know well
That the path to both
Oft runs parallel.
On an autumn day
I heard the sound
Of children at play.
My brown
Has gone grey.
Leaves fall
And the ground
Takes all
Our leaves away.
At night
I rhyme
Of scattered leaves
And fleeting time.
As I pondered on the approaching Halloween
I spied a black cat eating cream.
When I said, “are you magic?”,
He said, “no, but its tragic!
As I’ve eaten all of your cream!”
I recall
The fall
Of sweet scented leaves.
And elsewhere,
Her hair, still wet,
In my bedroom,
Smelling of apple perfume.
Sometimes I regret
My fallen leaves.
When I found a young lady in red
On the floor by my fine old bed,
And I said, “my dear,
How did you get here!”,
She said, “I fell out of your bed!”.
After tea
And homemade cake,
And the crossword,
We heard,
Sitting in a London garden,
A wild, screeching sound.
“What was that?”, I said.
“A fox with it’s prey”.
Soon the screeching ceased
And our sunny day
Returned to peace.
A quick death
Is best.
And the dead
Read no romanticising poetry
Of death.
When a young lady known as Claire
Said, “I’d like to call you sir”.
I said to Miss Jane,
“Its you with the cane!
I think Claire should call you sir!”.
K Morris - Poet 