When the telescreens went on the blink,
A few took a lover
But, most, being fearful of Big Brother
Did not think
To riot. The Proles stayed quiet,
(Though members of the Thought Police
Where found drowned
In the poorer quarters of town).
Then, when the telescreens all got restored,
Things went on just as before.
My clock chimes
On a spring day.
Women and wine
Are mine,
But my springtime
Has passed
And the fast
Tick tock
Of antique clocks
Appeals not
To girls in heels
Who do not
Feel their clock
Soon must stop.
In my lonely hours
I have known
The pull of flowers.
I have grown
Weary of being alone
And bought wine
And flowers
To while
Away the time
With painted smiles
And blossom,
Fallen as I.
I know a young lady named Kate
Who went out on a sugar date.
But the man had no money,
Which we all found quite funny!
But she lacks any humour does Kate!
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
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.
K Morris - Poet 