She ends each text with an x,
While he, with a world weary smile
Does the same.
It’s the oldest game
Around they say.
Some Feminists may frown
But the men still pay.
The women pay to,
But in a different way.
Some girls play a part
And retain their heart.
But each party pays,
And all loves and lusts
Are but endless dust.
Birds on a March evening.
Such beauty and grieving
For we all must sleep,.
Sometimes I almost weep
For birds in the evening
Will sing on
When I am gone.
Yet this night
I shall take delight
In evening birds.
For the graveyard plot
Has no song.
You are in touch again.
It is always the same
Time worn dance
Of pseudo romance
Over and over again.
We meet and greet.
I have fun.
In the morning you run.
We both know
It will be so.
Love is free.
I give you no rings.
But other things
Are not free.
I see scaffold on the old church .
Perhaps it is required
To hold bricks which may otherwise slip.
I have passed by graves
In the cold rain
As the great heavens above
Stood empty of love.
This scaffold may momentarily save
The church. But all
Are in thrall to dust.
At 6 am
I awake to rain.
Today I may smile
And perchance recall
There is no artifice
In the rain.
There was heavy rain
In the churchyard
As I hurried by
Cold old stones.
Later the sun came,
And early flowers
Groped for the spring.
Sometimes I find my mind
Dwelling on love and sleep.
My lover’s kiss
Is passing bliss.
But the Reaper keeps
His special kiss
For my inevitable sleep.
I can not buy the sky
Or the restless sea.
I have bought sweet scented flowers
But they and I
Are not the sea and sky.
The brevity of hours
Are unknown to flowers.
They fear not
The graveyard plot.
A good short post on form poetry, https://www.writingforward.com/poetry-writing/what-is-form-poetry
There once was a man named Neil
Who said, “I shall invent the wheel!”.
A young lady called Sun
Said, “that’s already been done!”,
As she rolled around with that Neil!
K Morris - Poet 