Sometimes I dash
Along the churchyard path.
But those who sleep
Have no appointments to keep.
And I pass by
The graveyard plot
Until I do not.
Yet I must
My final appointment keep
With worms and dust.
And the earth
Will continue to turn
Without heed or need
Of me
Walking along the familiar street
I meet
A lady who asks me
For £1
So that she
Can get to bank.
I give her the pound
And laugh at her story.
I receive no thanks
But get asked for £5
(Which I deny I have).
I go home
Thinking on philosophy,
Lies,
And the fickleness of charity.
But who
Exploited who
I wonder
As I sit alone
At home
Writing poetry …
(Note: “Bank” refers to bank station on the London underground).
Standing in the cold park
I heard the birds
Sing in early January.
I will hear them in spring.
And think I see
Cold birds.
Yet I know that the winter
Lives in me
And poets sing
Of what is true.
You padded around my flat
Silent as a cat.
I strain
To remember your name.
Then it comes back.
And I recall
You wanted something else
And I, wanted you,
And fell from grace.
A few years later, you called my name
In the street
Were intimate strangers
By mischance meet.
You were no old flame.
Yet the memory remains
Of a girl, perhaps half there.
And your friend in the street
Who knew it was true
But claimed a mistake
Had occurred.
Yet, I knew you –
A sleek black cat
Who lost her fur
In a gentleman’s flat.
One day
I will cross the Styx
And drink of Lethe.
All our memories must decay.
But some succumb
To Lethe
Before they make their way
Over the Styx.
We grieve
For those who are here
Yet gone away.
And pray
That when we leave
We may
Recognise Charron.
Yet some who forget
Before they cross
Know not what
They have lost
The rain fell
In the wood I know well.
I could say it’s sound
Was very profound
And the forest rang with birdsong.
All of this is true.
But I was wet through
And wanted home
And hot tea!
The scent of cheap perfume
Pervades an overheated room.
She in her mini skirt
And too high heels.
He in t-shirt and jeans.
They play their scenes.
She loses skirt and heels
And feels
The threadbare carpet under her feet.
She wants to sleep …
Sometimes she weeps,
But not in front of them.
He sighs.
His fun is done.
Occasionally he cries,
Though not when they can see.
The same dance
Of no romance
Over and over again
To hide his pain.
She has a child to feed
Or perhaps some other need.
Sometimes he wonders about them.
But they are free
As is he …
To choose …
I passed by
Where you once lived
And remembered how you gazed at the stars
So far away.
It is cold today
But you are lost to frost and sunshine.
You denied the divine
Yet loved the starry sky.
No telescope can see where you are gone.
Yet I think you would agree with me
That we came from stardust
And must go
Beyond where the telescope can see
In early January
My shadow goes in front of me.
The sun shines
But my hands are cold.
One day I know
My shadow will no longer go.
Though perhaps in rhyme
I will leave something behind
And people may see
Something of me.
For poets make shadows
Through their poetry
Should I shed a tear
For the dying year?
I survived a brain abscess
And lived to see the tree undress
In autumn.
My hair has longed turned white.
I can not fight
The passage of time.
Yet take delight
In this brief rhyme
Of life.
All things pass.
Yet my glass
Is at least half full.
The weather is dull
But I still hear the steady tick tock
Of the clock
On the wall
And relish these fallen leaves
For I, as they
Must pass away.
K Morris - Poet 