No rain can quell
This burning
Hell.
Angels falling from the sky,
Calling to you and I,
Cry
Crocodile tears
For wasted years.
Then, half-heartedly die.
Why pretend
As we descend,
That you do not recognise
In those dead eyes
The mirror image of you and I?
“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators
Of the world” Shelley said.
But all praters
Must go to that night
Where none write,
For what use are words to the dead?
There was a young lady called Ruth
Who said “there is no proof.
But you may find,
If you look behind,
Something approaching the truth!
It will not do
To force one’s foot into an ill fitting shoe.
Likewise it is a mistake
To make
Poems rhyme
Where no rhyme properly should be.
The steady tick tock
Of the clock.
I am here,
You are not.
All my human pride.
I can not hide
From the inexorable tick tock
Of the clock.
Now I am here,
Then I am not.
Should I explain
Or leave those who gather the grain
To glean
What I mean?
I am no expert
But hope my words divert
And cause readers to think
As they from poetry’s fountain drink.
There was a ghost called Frank,
Who liked his chains to clank
In a manner most foul,
(Which caused the dogs to howl)!
And his stare was cold and blank.
—
A disreputable old ghost called Frank
Liked his chains to clank.
He stole a young lady’s towel,
In a manner most foul
As she lazed on the river bank.
A workman shouts to his mate.
An ordered state
With everything
Working as it should.
I enter the nearby wood
Where birds sing,
My dog and I revelling in the spring.
Idly I ponder
Whether the robot will come
And eclipse yonder
Workman’s sun.
There was a young man called Ron
Who wrote a poem about a swan.
He said to the bird,
“Have you my poem heard?”
But the swan had long since gone.
Compose a poem about the deep red rose,
And how it’s scent does perfume the soft evening air,
And I swear
Readers will raise
You up with praise.
Compose a verse about the rose
And the bee’s burning lust,
(Oh see how they are both but dust),
And I will eat my hat
If the poet does not receive a brickbat
Or the vilence
Of silence
K Morris - Poet 