The last
Of the summer grass
Is mown.
The future is unknown.
The past
May be a guide.
But we decide
What seed is sown.
But does grass
In the mower’s grasp
Feel itself free …
The Last of the Summer Grass
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Tag Archives: free verse
Progress
Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
Forestry
I listen dutifully as he speaks of forestry.
A soft breeze whispers in trees
And I am far away where wind plays
Through the forest and through me.
Invisible
The wind is an invisible thing.
We see the waving trees
And leaves blown in the breeze.
I hear the wild wind
But him I do not see.
Finding the Quiet in Me
In the early morning
When all is still and quiet
My thoughts run riot.
Then, the silence takes me
To a place
Where no thought exists in me. ,
And I am free
To simply be
Barmaid
She says that she used to see me
On her way to school.
As she pours my usual drink, I think
Of Larkin’s “The Old Fools”.
And I cast around for something to say
About my so ordinary day
Conkers Found in My Desk Drawer
I found 2 conkers in my desk drawer.
I could return them to the forest floor
Where they would rot and be one
With fruits and flowers long since gone.
Autumn is in the air,
Yet I do not care
To return them to the ground.
A thought, perhaps profound,
We are all bound
To join Mother Nature’s great store
When we, as leaves fall
And become as one
With generations long gone.
Conkers may be put away
In a drawer.
But Autumn’s fall
Says all things must decay.
Out of Tune
As I sat composing poetry
On a windswept afternoon
In the garden.
I heard all the windchimes
Sounding out of tune.
And then came the rain
To mock me
And my poetry.
Superior
I can be snobby and proud.
I lose myself in crowds
But rarely feel part of them.
Sometimes I feel myself superior
To other men.
But when my final breath
Is lost in death
There will be
No inferior or superior
Just common dust
Piano Tuner
She spoke of the blind man
Who came to tune the family piano.
He thinks her name was Emily.
But men’s memories play tricks
And time slips
Unnoticed away.
He can not say
Whether she played the piano.
Perhaps she said
But his man’s mind
Was on bed.
It was an old tune
They played
Constrained by time.
He finds a blind piano tuner
He never met.
And Emily on his mind.
And lost in introspection
He searches for a connection
And recalls their night’s conversation
Followed by bed.
K Morris - Poet 