Is there a recorder, somewhere
Noting down our every act?
I doubt the fact
Of god
But who has not
In the depths of dreams
Heard the recorder
That does die with I,
And seen
The thick black book
Wherein his every sin
Is writ?
And when he is gone
The record lives on
Be it known or not.
An interesting post entitled “What Prose Writers Can Learn From Great Poetry”, https://emmalee1.wordpress.com/2021/06/30/what-prose-writers-can-learn-from-great-poetry/”.
Kevin
On my way home
I touched the stone
Of my local church.
And longed to stay
With the singing birds
On this summer evening.
I have oft heard
The birds singing
And regretted leaving.
I envy them
For, unlike men
They do not weep.
For they see not
The final sleep.
While I
Knowing that man must die
Have the beauty of birdsong,
Which does not last long
“The foxes are mating”, I said.
Then, in bed
You used a word rarely heard
In polite company.
But there was no tea party.
Merely us 3.
I awoke from a doze
Refreshed, in my old armchair.
Who knows
I may go that way.
For many a man goes
In doze.
If it be so
I shall not know.
A guy may buy
A pretty girl’s eye
And revel in bliss
From her soft kiss.
But the honest guy
Will find
It hard to deny
That behind
Her smiling eye
And sweet scent
There lies, contempt
In her hair
And legs bare
I forget regret.
But after laughter
And drink die
I find rhyme
In passing lust
And eternal dust.
We
Walked through the graveyard.
She
Is frightened of death.
Earlier we
Drank wine.
Our bed
Was hot
The dead
Are forever here.
The graveyard plot
Draws lovers near.
When a young man driving a hearse
Composed a poem all in free verse
A corpse in the back
Gave him such a whack,
That he went and crashed that Hearse!
Slippery money
Made of plastic.
A honey,
Her morals elastic.
Money smooth
As honey’s skin.
K Morris - Poet 