Why do I care
When you call me “sir”?
I say “call me by my name”
But, again and again
You draw that distinction between you and I.
“Tell me my friend, why?”
I am no Communist red
With idealism pervading my head.
But as one human to another
I tell you my friend, “you are my brother”.
So I guess that is why I care
When you call me “sir”.
Stiff as a board.
But more reluctant,
With only the invisible cord
To loosely tie
You to I.
A sigh.
The night dies
Away.
Into indifferent day
And no compassion have you for I.
The thing he can not express
The dress
That never was
Because …
Words he can not speak
Leave him weak.
Should he seek
For answers from the Mother Superior
Or her inferior?
The inferior speaks the truth.
Does the roof
Then fall in
Exposing Mother Superior’s sin?
Oh how frail
Is the veil
Separating heaven from hell, and how easy to expose
The fact that the emperor has no clothes …
It is said that one may as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. However, there being neither sheep nor lambs in the field, Tom stole the farmer’s prize cow instead.
They found Tom (or what had once constituted him) in a bloody mess in the field. Having forgotten his glasses and being extremely short sighted, he had mistook a very ill tempered bull for a mild mannered cow.
“Look on the bright side” said Mick Carmichael, down the Fox and Hounds later that evening.
“What bright side? Poor bloke was gored to death”! said Charlie Dunn.
“Well it just goes to prove what I always say – that one shouldn’t put any faith in those old sayings, as Tom wasn’t hanged for either a sheep or a lamb, but ended his days on the horns of farmer Robert’s prize bull …”! replied Mick Carmichael.
The sun comes and goes on a cold Autumn day
And I think on fun and how quickly it passeth away.
The flower that bloomed
Is soon entombed,
Or if it blooms still
A rill
Of tears
Marks it’s all too tender years.
It catches up with you, in the end,
Although its easy to pretend
That the late nights
And fights
With an unknown friend
Under the sheet
Will not defeat
Roistering youth.
The truth
Oft creeps
Up on a man as he sleeps.
Or when, on seeing nature’s beauty he weeps
Over something irredeemably lost,
And counts the cost for a while,
Then with a weary smile
Returns to the merry-go-round
Which will spin him round, and round and round
My finger lingers
Over the delete button.
One little caress, a mere press
And the process
Will be complete.
The call button.
Am I a glutton
For the fire
With a desire
To burn on a pyre
Of my own making?
Heads shaking
I see
Telling me
I need to be free
Of thee.
One final spree
For you and me?
I imagine the glee
In your eyes
Where no pitty lies.
The smile
Of the Cheshire cat vanishes while
Only a thin lipped grin
Of distaine remains.
Happy National Poetry Day! (http://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/http://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/).
Outer beauty shows
And throws
Shadows of distraction.
The magnet feels an attraction
To steel
And is drawn to seal
Its destiny in unholy communion,
A union of empty clang
And bang.
The fine façade
Hides a hard
Truth.
The roof
Is rotten
And forgotten
Woodworm Has eaten through
The fine oak beams
Which, at first sight it seems
Should hold true.
The magnet will rue
The day it did settle
On metal
Base.
Yet to the beautiful face
It is drawn, As a fly
To the sty,
Where it will wallow
In hollow
Joys, then die.
Deep in the soul
Where CCTV
Can not penetrate,
A devil does wait
And whispers, “my goal
Is to make you free.
Come with me
Where the light is no more
And see what pleasures are in store
For those who would ignore
Society’s law.
Empty the brain
And do not restrain
Your carnal needs.
Only the herd feeds
On the myth of The Fall.
Pleasure is all,
Come with me
And be free”.
One may look up to heaven above
And call upon God’s love.
But what if we are alone
In our temple of skin and bone,
With only our conscience weak
To speak?
Shall the meek
Inherit the earth?
I fear
There is a clear
Dearth
Of proof
In support of this “truth”.
K Morris - Poet 