When the sweating
And the getting
Is almost done
And our sun
Is setting,
Will we count a race well run?
Let us be wary lest the tears fall
And what seemed sweet, turn to gall.
Gall
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Tag Archives: k morris poet
There Was A Young Man Called Neil
There was a young man called Neil
Who’s love for a girl was passionate and real.
She said, “Beware,
For people stare
And my heart it is made of steel”!
Nice
As inconsequencial as a child who did say
As she walked past the aquarium yesterday,
“I have fish like that”.
Me, on my way from my flat
To the pub, thought of France
And innocent children who can no longer dance.
—
There is a shop selling tropical fish, reptiles etc some 10 minutes walk from my home. While strolling along to the pub yesterday evening (Sunday 17 July),I overheard the above snatch of conversation.
There Was a Young Lady Called Fiona
There was a young lady called Fiona
Who took a boat to Iona.
She fell in the sea,
Shouted “Now I am free.
I have always been a bit of a loner”!
As in Days of Yore
When the sun sinks
Man Drinks
From the Lillie lined pool
Where many a fool
Has drunk before.
As in days of yore
So it is now.
I think on how
Everything has changed
Yet remains the same.
The fool
Still drinks
As the sun sinks
Over the stagnant pool
Where lillies have long since gone to seed,
Vultures feed
And luxuriant weeds
Supply all needs.
The Poet’s Obsession
Love and death are the poet’s great obsession.
Wile the former session
May be long or brief,
‘Tis certain, the performance, once over, ends in grief.
Owl
I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?
Heels
Heels approaching
Conscience’s reproaching
Din Shrieks, “This is sin”!
But oh, how sweet it is to give in …
Sound ever nearer,
Clearer and clearer.
The man fears her
Yet desires.
unquenchable fires.
The body tires
Yet still he aspires
To take
And her passion awake.
Figurines
Not all metal is brass.
Figurines
Perform sceenes,
Reflected back in glass,
Then out of the play pass.
Some will return again
To cause the director pain,
But not all metal is brass.
Refracting
The poet may redact
The light that through his poem does refract.
But the reader will therein construe
That she believes to be true.
