You are content
For the nurse
May prevent
The worst
For a while.
The smile
Of an unknown friend
Under the white sheet
Is passing sweet.
Yet in the end
The nurse
On swift feet
Can not stay the dread traverse
Of yonder hearse.
Should a man repent
Of unmentionable scent
When others were long ago acquainted
With the flower he has tainted?
Is a moral debate
Worth a candle
When the vandal
Has stormed the gate?
The hill she must climb
Time after time,
And look over the top
To see what is not.
“Good morning stranger, I know you well”.
They greet
Under well worn sheet.
“There is no spell
To hold you here
Tis simply the sprinkle,
The familiar tinkle
Of worldly dust
That has thrust
We two together.
In stormy weather
Ships seek any port.
On a wave of need caught
They chance their luck
And sometimes buck”.
A burned child dreads the fire,
They say,
But, as day follows day,
We see that he
Grasps the hot coal
To his soul,
Again and again,
Despite the pain.
The coal burns
And the child turns
Away,
(Perhaps for a day)
Or so.
Yet back he will go,
To that place I know,
Truth to tell,
All too well.
First speaker: “Is it romantic?”
Second speaker: “no,
Although,
Some hold it to be so.
It is a frantic dance
Where romance
Has little chance”.
First Speaker: “Are you friends
Of a kind?”
Second speaker: “I find
That there are schemes,
Means
To ends.
It all depends
On what you mean by friends …”.
First speaker: “Is there ever respect?”
Second speaker: “I can not reject
The idea that there is sometimes respect,
But some will never accept
That this is often the case
So after imagined nightmares chase”.
First speaker: “Is it cold?”
Second speaker: “Warm arms enfold
But gold
Is by it’s nature cold”.
Naïve?
Who to believe?
What we perceive,
The signals we receive,
Are so much
Double Dutch.
Or are they so?
For the wise may know
The meaning
Of scheming.
An imagined delight
Takes flight.
The perceived swan
Is gone
And the old owl
Has no time
For the poet’s rhyme,
For behind each word
Is heard
The wolf’s foul growl.
As I grow older, my blood cools.
I shall leave fools
To kick against the rules
And retire
From desire,
For the fire
Has burned me to the core.
The flames roar
On occasions still entices.
But no, I will not haggle over prices!
Fools may pursue their own devices
While I drink
The water that cools
And think
On half-forgotten spices.
Licence to use image obtained – Copyright: worac 123RF Stock Photo
“Excuse me, have you got the time please?”
“No, sorry”.
In the early hours of this morning (Saturday 26 August), I became conscious of my dog wandering around my home. This is, generally a sign that he needs to go out so (with some reluctance given the ungodly hour), I threw on some clothes and took my restless friend outside. I am not at my best of an early morning. Consequently I received quite a shock when a young woman enquired about the time.
On returning home and checking the time, I discovered that it was 1:41. Idly I wondered what took a young woman out at such a late hour. Possibly she was waiting for a bus (there is a bus stop close to my home). She could, perhaps have been visiting one of the residents of the flats in which I reside, or someone in the neighbouring block. Alternatively …
In any event it occurred to me that a fellow writer out there might like to use this as a writing prompt. If so, I would be interested to read what you write.
Kevin
Once he would wait
In a state
Of needing,
To begin his feeding.
The plate
Would arrive.
Man felt alive
As he ate.
But no,
It was not always so,
For on occasions he would feed
And reluctant to retire,
His greed
Did more desire
Breed.
A wise man did once remark
On this truth stark,
“There is enough for every man’s need,
But not his greed”.
With indifference or hate
Man comes to regard the plate.
But what of the wish
Of the dish?
For do not plates
Have states
Of being?
A dish, itself seeing
Reflected back, in glass
Thinks “alas”,
And wishes for all this to pass.
K Morris - Poet 