My head full
Of dull
Thought.
Then the ball you caught
And waving your tail
Did derail
My introspection.
How can I suffer dejection
When I recollect your playful snort
And the ball you caught?
Dog and Ball
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Tag Archives: love
For The Birds
Carpet by heels worn.
Man’s heart torn
Asunder
By blades that plunder
His nightly slumber.
To and fro
The dancers go.
Ever changing,
Exchanging
Well worn words.
Love my friend, is for the birds …
Willow
Scent on a pillow fades.
In woodland glades
The willow
Weeps
As dusk creeps
Over the land.
The sand
Where lover’s feet Trod
Is printless now.
Oh see how
The grassy sod
Forms a bed
Where the dead
Sleep
And those that loved once, no longer weep.
Saints and Mere Mortals
The pious wag their fingers
While love’s perfume
Lingers
In a darkened room,
Where mere mortals enjoy
That which the saint would destroy.
An Unsuitable Attachment
An unsuitable attachment
Leads on to detachment.
The slow drip, drip
Of anoyances strip
Bare
Any pretence that either party care.
Beware
For the perfect bust
Engenders lust
Which may be for true passion mistaken.
When dalliance is over, the forsaken
Heart Cries
Out for love, and seeks joy in another’s eyes.
‘Tis frequently a temporary reprieve
For lonleness will oft times cause man to believe
That desire is love.
The gods above
Shrug,
For they have seen it all before.
And well know
That further woe
Is in store.
Birds That Fly
An unspoken token.
Perhaps a ring
Or some other sundry thing
Left behind
For a man to find
May cause his heart to sing,
Or ponder on why
Birds that fly
Leave a solitary feather
To remember them by.
Reprieve
Is a poem a thing of art
Carefully crafted in every part?
Or does the poet roughly ssing
Of Cupid’s sting
And pages wet
That he may not forget
His unrequited love?
The heart
Finds expression in art.
Rough hewn or not
The poet has got
To find a voice.
He has no choice
Other than to obtain a brief
reprieve
From grief
In the words he doth weave.
Woman
What is a woman that she holds such power
Over men?
She is a delicate flower
Who when
Scorned
Reveals thorns
That prick
The hapless man to the quick.
Woman is a pussycat with soft furr
Giving off a throaty purr.
But those who dare
To stir
Her
Wrath she will, with polished claws tear
Apart.
Beware for the heart
In love given
May with stillettos be ridden
Over.
“You drove her
To it by your behaviour”.
“I am your saviour”
She will say.
And, as sure as night follows day
You will be begging the girl to stay
For her claws are now sheaved
And who would believe
That one with a face so fair
Could rend and tear?
Stallion
The stallion getting old
Feels the cold,
But When he runs with the mares
His cares
Seem far away.
He doth play
At romance
But cannot prance
As once was the case.
Another pretty face
Becomes as one
With lovers long since gone.
There are always mares
With which to pair,
To keep him warm
As the dawn grey
Slinks over the horizon
Ushering in yet another day.
Morning Rain
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.
K Morris - Poet 