In an English garden
I heard a blackbird
And thought on England,
And on how we
English, are still,
More or less,
Free.
In An English Garden
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Tag Archives: free verse
The Ageing Rake
She kept her stockings on
And soon was gone.
Now I write a rhyme
About the first time.
In a bedsit
By a canal
My first fall
Was just banal.
Shal I write
Of other nights?
Of fake flirts in skirts,
And the odd passing delight?
No, I shall pass
Over the mirrored glass
Where many a stranger does comb
Her hair, ere leaving me alone.
He Deals with Girls in Heels
He deals with girls in heels.
Behind the pretty eyes he buys
You may find a tortured mind,
Or a girl who thinks
Of dishes in her sink
As she pleases and teases
A man who worships her shoe.
Or, as he gets his thrills
Perchance she thinks on unpaid bills
Which his night of delight
Will pay the following day
And what of John
When she is gone?
What will his conscience say? …
Why Do I Try to Cage
Why do I try
To cage
A blackbird in my paper cage?
In spring he sings
And makes for me
Sublime poetry.
That I can not cage
Within my poor poetic cage.
As the Light Slowly Dimmed
As the light
Slowly dimmed
I took delight
In birds.
“Oh my god!”.
But words
Are not birds.
I Remember You 2
I remember you two.
One of you,
In my living room
(I forget who)
Waited for your friend.
Was there perfume?
I can’t pretend
To remember names.
Alone, I telephoned
And you came.
Freedom
I hear the free
Wind,
And the birds sing.
And long to be
Free
As the unconquerable wind
And birds
That sing.
In Flowering May
In flowering May
We little think
On Autumn grey
But our spring
Does not stay.
A Yellow Dog
A yellow dog
In yellow sun.
You take delight
In spring sunlight.
Your time
Has come.
My brindle friend
Enjoyed the sun.
All things end.
The wind’s gust
Blows all dust
Under the sun.
(In the above poem, the reference to the yellow dog is to my current guide dog Apollo, whilst “my brindle friend” refers to my former guide dog Trigger, who died in September 2020).
Fumbling Hands
I have gone with desire
And jumped into the fire
And have found
A truth profound:
That all flesh tires
And hands that fumble
Must crumble
Into dust.
K Morris - Poet 