Your perfume lingered in my living room
After you where gone.
The memory of skin against skin
Lives on.
Some would call it sin.
Perhaps, when all is said and done
One man’s fun
Is another’s sin.
The sky did not fall in
On me or you.
I am generally comfortable alone.
But I have the phone
Should I need you.
Your perfume will linger again
And I will recall
What some call the fall.
Perhaps pleasure and pain
Are somewhat the same.
But, if I am only dust
Why does Paradise Lost matter
Caught up in our nightmares
Of what may, or may not occur,
We forget the beautiful sunset
And that the earth in the wood
Smells good when wet.
Living in fear
We fail to hear
When birds sing.
Our spring
Is so brief.
Nightmare’s teeth
Pierce our hearts.
Yet we have art
And nature’s beauty
Ere we depart
Into that sleep
Where we are unaware
Of beauty or nightmare.
When a young lady wearing pink socks
Walked into a shop full of clocks,
The shop owner named Lyme
Said, “it is high time
That you wore something with those socks!”.
Walking home in the pouring rain
I pondered on AI
And those who continue to maintain
The inevitability of progress.
The rain continued to fall.
Although I heard
No human word
Nature seemed to laugh
As I passed
Along the familiar churchyard path.
When young ladies waving very wet mops
Jumped and danced on the table tops,
All the old gentlemen cheered.
While I shaved my beard.
And the waiters they called the cops!
When a young lady who is 9
Said, “all boys are far from divine!”,
And with her water pistol
Blasted them all to Bristol!
They forgave her as she’s only 9!
I know an extremely pretty young barmaid
And many a game we have played.
When I say to her, “Bess,
Shall we play draughts or chess?”,
She winks at me does that barmaid …!
When it rains
I try not to complain
For in the drought
Flowers die out
And we all need
To feed on the rain.
Traffic goes by
It’s sound amplified by rain.
A plane flies
In the summer sky
And birds sing.
While I compose my poetry
Touching on eternity
And the fleeting spring.
After their perfunctory hug
She leaves his flat.
She knows the street is cold.
Though she has never experienced that –
Just his snug flat
Where time passes
In wine glasses.
And 2 bodies meet
Under the unjudging sheet.
K Morris - Poet 