Heels clicking.
A clock ticking.
Sounds intermingle.
Fantasies kindle
In the mind of the single man
Who can
But hear
The click of stillettos
Passing near.
Supine he lies,
And closing his eyes
Tries
To slumber.
Idly he doth wonder
What takes
A girl out so late
And who else wakes,
Rapt, by joy or fear
Harkening to heels
Passing near.
In forests green
I have seen
The nymphs play.
Cometh May
They will around the pole
Dance.
By chance
Some kindred soul
Seeing a special one twirl
Will take a girl
Into his arms
For who can resist the charms
Of beauty fleeting
As the budding rose
Pressed to a young maiden’s nose.
There will be time enough for weeping
When the dance is over
And we are pushing up the clover
What do you think
As we drink
the wine,
Your fingers entwined in mine?
Do I want to know
And, if so
Is It out of a genuine care
To grasp Where
you have been
Or what seen?
Do I really want you to say
What thoughts of woe
Hold sway
During your average day?
I find it is easy to be kind.
But better not to talk
Of the demons that stalk
Our head.
Let us retire
To bed
For drink is the sire
Of desire
And in love’s fire
We burn
Ere we return
To our sorrow.
Let tomorrow
Go hang.
We will play today
Though the sky has long since turned grey.
So many dinners
And diverse sinners
Knowing
Where they are going
Once the bill is paid
And the maid
With winking face
Shows grace
And retires.
Not so secret desires
Observed in his eyes.
She tries
To take refuge in drink.
They think
Of the time ahead,
Of the night’s dead
Hour and bed.
Rain falling
Calling
To me as it fell
Casting it’s spell.
Drops on my window tapping.
The sound
Around
Me wrapping.
Eve
May deceive
While Adam and his mate
Learn to late
They did create
The serpent that
Under the Tree of Knowledge sat.
The constant rain
Drumming on my window pane.
The sane
Man
Can
Forgo
The forbidden fruit.
Yet his failure to withstand
The fickle hand
Of pleasure
Is at the root
Of much woe.
He doth Taste
In haste
And repent at leisure.
In the end
Only the Sane
Rain
Will remain,
As we descend
To the place where dreams that shatter
No longer matter
And lover’s inconstant chatter
Is replaced
By death’s blank face.
Excess of sadness
Leads on to madness.
Yet
Is it better to forget
Regret
In Hades river
Whither
We are all bound?
The place where the sound
Of weeping
Is never heard amongst the sleeping
Dead.
We are led
To seek happiness here
Yet, I fear
We hear
Not the joyess melancholy of the birds
Who’s song surpasses man’s paltry words.
Sadness and joy are our lot.
We have got
But a short space
To look upon nature’s beauteous face.
Let us live life to the full
For in Hades only the dull
River doth wait
To take
All we are away
From the sun’s bright day.
As announced on 16 March (http://newauthoronline.com/2016/03/16/i-am-being-interviewed-on-saturday-9-april/), I am being interviewed by Croydon Radio’s Tom Cannon, about my collection of poetry “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” (http://moyhill.com/lost/). The interview will take place at 5:15 pm and can be heard live (at that time) by going to (http://croydonradio.com/). A podcast will also be available from Sunday 10 April and I will post a link once it goes live.
Kevin
Breathing in the fresh evening air
I wander along
Conscious of birdsong.
The birds sing without a care
And soon I will be there
With her.
I dare
Say there
Will be a conversation
Over our meal.
What do I feel?
Anticipation
At the thought of what I know will come?
The birds Continue to trill.
The evening will
Run
Away in laughter
And drink.
I think
On The dull thrill
Of what comes after
A passing triumph, lost in a disaster.
The audience watches askance
As they dance
On the edge
Of a ledge.
Feet moving faster.
The music and laughter.
What follows after
Cool reflection or disaster?
She stoops but who conquers?
The situation bonkers.
A man old enough to be her father.
They would rather
Not think
On those who wink
And titter.
A bitter taste
Is a man’s disgrace
Yet still men dally
With silk and lace.
Many skirt
The issue.
The time is short
And dearly bought.
A tissue
Of lies
And midnight sighs.
A girl growing up forsook
The straight path and took
A step down a perilous track.
One may turn back
But many lack
The will.
In the still
Of night
Delight
For one.
A soul is gone
And time rolls on.
Greying hairs.
She swears
All is not lost
And counts the cost
Of fixed smiles
And denials
No longer believed
By those she deceives.
K Morris - Poet 