A professional
Young woman.
No confessional
Just dinner
Then a bar
(Again he pays).
Then its goodbye
And the evening sky
To keep him company.
While she
Being a professional
Goes home alone,
For friendship
Complicates a fee.
Fruit just
Ripened.
Half-excited,
Part-frightened
By lust.
The final day of August
Brings Autumn’s coming chill.
Perhaps this is the last
Of Summer’s new-mown grass.
The eternal breeze
Rustles the leaves
And my once brown hair.
Society rides
The tides
Of collectivism
And individualism.
Whilst in Highgate
Spencer and Marx
Continue their decay.
(Note: Karl Marx’s grave in Highgate Cemetery is almost directly opposite to that of the champion of liberal individualism, Herbert Spencer. See https://highgatecemetery.org/visit/cemetery/east#featurephoto71).
Does the Devil
Read or write poetry?
It might be so
For compassion’s glow
May burn low
In the wickedest heart.
And camp guards
Listened to Mozart.
We fuss
And rush
Through life.
Perhaps take
A lover,
A husband
Or wife.
We will find time
To weave our rhyme
We say,
For there must
Be another day.
And the dust
Gathers unseen.
I thought I had lost
The key to my clock.
When I found it again
It’s old tick tock
Continued on. but time
He pauses not.
(The above poem first appeared in my June Author Newsletter, which can be accessed here https://mailchi.mp/37a9976abe1c/kevins-june-author-newsletter).
A short rhyme
Of eternal rain
By a poet
Who spent time
In an ancient wood
On a summer’s day.
Dare he find
Her inner mind
Behind pumping thighs
And neutral eyes?
The best try
Not to objectify
By attempting to find
Her inner mind.
And in his bed
She maintains a shred
Of her privacy
By covering up after.
Doubtless we will discuss
Poetry and lust
Over so-so Wine.
Then, in the morning
We will yawn.
You will depart.
And I will smile
For a while.
No forlorn
Heart of mine
Or thine.
Merely a rhyme
And maybe,
A next time.
K Morris - Poet 