The scales of justice
Weigh right and wrong.
But, when unjust men
Sail away in death
‘Ere her scales
Have time to weigh,
What can
Justice say?
For the man
Has gone beyond
Our human
Right and wrong.
The Scales of Justice
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Tag Archives: free verse
Maiden
Stripping the maiden bare
I leave her.
In my living room.
No sweet scent
For me to repent
Just a frame
Of steel
And plastic,
A bachelor maintains
For drying clothes.
Cat
“I’m a cat girl” she said.
Cats enter bed
Where they purr
And sometimes they scratch and bite.
I wonder, on this summer night
Does she delight
With purrs
And bites.
On the Closure of the Railway Bell, 14 Cawnpore Street, Gipsy Hill
I sit at the bar
In the old familiar pub
And touch the wood
Tinged with beers
From bygone years.
Landlords have come and gone
But the pub has continued on.
I recall
With delight
The fire’s warm light.
But it’s a summer evening
And there is no firelight.
To brighten this leaving.
I say goodbye
To the final table
I am unable
To show my eyes
For men don’t cry
Goodtime
“Have you ever been in love”, I said,
After we had been to bed.
“Yes, and he broke my heart”.
I am not rude like some other guy
She saw, she said. And before she left
She offered me more bedtime.
Then, I was left behind
With my art
And the thought
That there ought
To be no more goodtime
I Am Trapped in Time
I am trapped
In time.
My passing rhyme
Must end
When he taps
Me on the shoulder
And says, “its over
My friend”.
And will aliens find
Fragments of poetry
And ponder on rhyme
And fleeting time?
Or will they see
An unintelligible line?
Or perhaps not care
When and where
We humans wrote,
Then cut our throat?
Cracked Glass
When the mirror finally breaks
There will be no lakes
Of pointless tears,
Just wasted years,
Reflected straight back
In shards of broken glass.
Bliss
“Would you like to,
Again? before I go …?”
Her kiss!
Her hands!
His momentary bliss.
Time never stands
Still. Goodbyes are spoken
And banks open.
When I Die
When I die
What will people see
In my poetry?
Will they read me
At all?
I will not know
Whether tis so
For in my pall
My poetry
Must surely go.
Though perhaps it may
Not be so.
Permanence
Sometimes I think
On permanent things:
The birds that sing,
The grand old churches
And the trees.
Then the breeze,
Mingling with the rain
Shows what will remain.
When you and me
Are as the tree.
K Morris - Poet 