The Path to Eternity
The churchyard floodlight
Momentarily brightens the night.
But the graves stand out white
Both day and night.
The graveyard is opposite my home.
It’s old stones
Have seen my shadow pass
Along that path
Were the moral and immoral
Cease their quarrel
In eternal dust.
I met an old man named Fred
Who said, “I am long since dead”.
I offered him toast
But, being a ghost,
He screamed and took off his head!
On an autumn afternoon
I change my jeans
In a cold bedroom.
My glass has seen scenes
Where girls barely known comb
Their hair, and then depart.
How often have I thought
I ought to make a new start.
Yet soon my glass has reflected back
A girl doing her hair
Before she leaves me
In sheets where strangers meet.
Sometimes my lust is satisfied
But my heart cries
Out for love.
Yet I continue to buy
What can not be bought.
And perhaps ought not.
Soon it will be Halloween.
I will hide behind gravestones
For a laugh. Jumping out as you pass.
But should cold old bones
Find me on Halloween, I will loudly scream!
I once had a very strict headmaster
Who said, “boy! You are a total disaster!”.
I said to him, “sir,
You must take great care!”,
As I drove his car much faster!
I was delighted to receive a great review of my collection of poetry, The Churchyard Yew and Other Poems. To read the review please visit https://robbiesinspiration.wordpress.com/2024/10/04/robbies-inspiration-a-duo-of-poetry-book-reviews-the-churchyard-yew-and-pilgrim-poetry-bookreviews/
I passed by the war memorial
On an autumn afternoon
And, hearing children, thought of Sassoon
The sun soon sets.
On the war dead.
In school war poets are read.
Owen and Sassoon are learned.
And memorials are built still.
You kept your top on.
I knew you wouldn’t stay.
When you where gone
I found a piece of pizza
You had left behind.
There are many kinds of takeaway.
And I often find
Such dishes are stone cold
I know a young lady named Winning
Who spends all her days in sinning.
My girlfriend Coral
Calls her immoral
And asks how I know Miss Winning …
6 degrees.
The air in the wood is good.
Leaves fall
And a Blackbird’s call
Follows me through the trees.
My mind should be still
But. Like a mill
I find my mind grinds
And the bird is only half heard.
Would that I could
Be one with bird and tree
But useless thought
Has it’s hold on me.
Yet, sitting here
I can almost hear
The Blackbird
And see the beauty of each tree
Which yesterday I failed to see.
K Morris - Poet 