I have demanded pleasure
And chosen not to understand
That the pursuit of pleasure
Would leave me stranded
In the desert sand.
I can command
Sweet painted lips
To tease and kiss.
But the desolate sand
Obeys no command.
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.
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.
At night
I rhyme
Of scattered leaves
And fleeting time.
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.
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.
I check my feet.
The skin underneath
Has begun to crease
And my toes
Are sometimes stiff.
I am growing old.
I can not deny
My middle age.
But when girl’s feet
Pass me by
I know only dust
Will defeat my lust.
In the sunlit wood
I heard
The sound of love.
No word
Did I hear.
Simply the bliss
Of young lover’s lips
Came softly to me
As a bird
In a tree
Mimicked kisses for me.
She looked
For her lost socks
In my flat.
On looking
I have found that
A lost earring
Or similar such thing
Is easily discovered
In bedcovers.
She found her socks
And I pleasure.
But, I wonder whether
I have lost
The capacity to love.
I am not indifferent to the charms
Of a young woman’s arms.
So when your arm wound around me
Of course I was flattered
For you are much younger than me.
I have had dreams shattered
So will believe that it was merely
Out of friendly regard
That your youthful arm
Wound around me.
In the churchyard
On my way home alone
I passed by cold stones
And contrasted their charms
With your warm arms.
K Morris - Poet 