This is the place of passing delight,
Where souls are lost at dead of night.
This is the place of lust and sighs,
Where something in each man dies.
This is the place of creaking boards,
Where men unsheathe their mighty swords.
This is the place of guys called John,
Where satisfaction, once obtained, they are gone.
Sounds painful to hear.
The dying year.
Leaves turn from green to brown.
His growing frown.
Death patiently waits,
As time, with gnarled fingers reaches for the gate.
The platitudinous things people say,
The rain will wash them all away.
The rat race of a London day,
The rain will cleanse this all away.
Rain, nature’s balm to a troubled mind,
Within us inner peace we find.
A quiet place in which to dwell,
Aloof from this London hell.
While swimming in a moat,
A goat ate my coat.
I was annoyed for awhile
But relieved it wasn’t a crocodile!
Time, as the shower runs away.
Will she not stay?
Each line upon the face,
Speaks of her fading grace.
The girl’s plaster smile.
He is in denial.
“Will you remain a while?”
He asks.
“No, this can not last.
I see the chasm yawning vast.
The hours,, like sand run away.
The dawn rises, I can not stay”.
The spider in his own web entangles,
Struggles exstatically, then slowly strangles.
The fly sucks the spider dry.
Smiling sweetly, to see him die.
Me reading my poem ‘The Gentleman Suitor to his Beloved’
Yeats is dead.
Poetry has fled.
Nonsense fills the collective head.
The falcon has flown.
Chaos is sown. .
We reap the whirlwind alone.
(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172062?gclid=COymhN2TiscCFaYfwwodsmoO_Q).
Handbags and shoes,
herself she will lose,
for handbags and shoes.
Handbags and shoes,
the road she will choose,
drowning in booze,
for handbags and shoes.
Oft he sought the perfect rose,
Enjoyed the flower where it grows.
Soon he found the blooms did pall,,
His dalliances they turn to gall.
Still he after pleasure strove,
Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.
Thorns they speared him through the heart,
Still his desire did not depart.
They found him lying on a bed cold,
In his hand a fading rose.
K Morris - Poet 