She left her shoes
Outside my front door.
I remember no booze.
Perhaps my neighbours saw
A young woman’s shoes
Bereft at my door
And thought I ought
To be more discreet
About young women’s feet.
But a girl’s shoes
Had been left bereft
At my door before …
He likes heels
And respects intellects.
Short skirts appeal.
A girl’s degree
Isn’t free,
But he respects
Their intellects.
In the crowded pub
A teen Goth girl
Sings of forever love.
We cheer over beers
And raise our glass
To a goth girl
And the truth
That all youth
Must pass.
And all our suns
Will become
The black.
Girl’s naked feet
Leave their print
In invisible ink.
While we meet,
On the page
Men who engage
On tawdry stage,
Leaving their print
In indelible ink.
Alone in my bedroom
As the sunlight falls
On bed and walls.
No scent of perfume
To sweeten my room,
Just the morn
Turning to noon.
We are but sunlight
Taken by night.
Dry leaves hang
On waiting trees.
The dead litter
The cracked ground.
Our bitter
Harvest of drought.
My clock’s old chime
Is out of time
With this modern age.
But I must engage
For I know
That the clock
Will not stop
Though I wish
It would do so.
I pass
People behind
Opaque glass.
I find
They say
Words, half-heard
As I, caught behind
My own cracked glass,
Half lose my mind.
A child’s laugh
Can bring me back.
But fragile glass
So easily cracks.
I heard a leaf fall.
It fell, dry and dead,
And rested there
On greying head.
And brought a thought
Of the passing kind
Into my so mortal mind …
I confess
I undress
Women in my mind.
Some are true lovers
While others
I find
Are the temporary kind.
And my love and lust
Are dust.
Poets die
And leave behind
A part
Of their heart
And mind.
And readers discuss
The loves and lusts
We leave behind,
Be they real
Or the imagined kind.
K Morris - Poet 