I am the one you pass without a second glance.
I am the one who can dance
my feet
moving to a forbidden beat.
I am the work that keeps him late
While at home you wait.
I am the scent that lingers
On fingers.
I am a smile
A guilty denial.
I am the bump that grows
Fingers and toes.
I am new life.
You are his wife.
Sun dappled lawns.
The vicar yawns
As Colonel Trickett
Defends his wicket.
The sound of bat on ball
mingles with a blackbird’s call
that floats
amidst ancient oaks
and the Colonel’s son takes Lucy’s hand
as the sun sets on Angleland.
Rocks and bar stools.
Men are fools!
She combs her hair
Oh man beware!
Cupid’s arrow is shot
And duty forgot.
She is giving him the eye.
The gods sigh.
Her voice so sweet.
Those dainty feet.
Passion into his heart creeps.
“Come play with me in the ocean deep.
In my warm embrace you may sleep
Locked in the arms of love
As Venus smiles above”,
She says
Her song musical as the waves.
But all singing ends
As to the depths they descend.
Her feet beat
To the music of the street.
Perfume sweet,
Makes him weak.
He would die,
For one look from those azure eyes.
Oh for a taste of those ruby red lips,
His heart skips,
As her fingers she slips,
Into his hand.
Breathlessly he waits for her command,
“I needs some grub.
Lets go to pub.
Bloke pays”.
She says,
Employing her feminine ways!
An autumn breeze
Russles ancient trees.
Scented leaves whirl
Fragrant as the girl
Who’s hair flows
As the wind blows.
bare arms reaching for the sky
Desirous to fly
With the birds
Who’s song is on this evening heard.
A rhythmic motion
Like a ship upon the ocean
Your legs swung
But to me no joy brung.
You spoke in a foreign tongue.
No songs where sung.
You where young
Eighteen or twenty
Our hearts they where empty.
Yes you where young,
Your feet in heels swung .
I see them swinging still
I have had my fill
Of desert beds and swinging legs.
Love to me is dead.
Bedposts stand and watch
As we our lives botch.
Never counting the cost
Of love wasted and lost.
Bedposts know,
That lovers come and go
And man sows what he reaps.
Would that they could speak.
Me reading my poem ‘Plinths’
Your contented sighs.
Those soft brown eyes.
Your cold wet nose.
Love beyond speech, my dog knows.
I am the girl who wasn’t there.
I did not sit upon that chair,
playing provocatively with my hair.
I did not drink that expensive wine,
While gazing on your paintings fine.
I did not recline under the quilt so red,
Or moan with exstasy in your bed.
If by chance, an earing she should find,
Worry not, it is not mine.
K Morris - Poet 