If I could paint a portrait
Of each dream and nightmare
There you would see me
Naked in love and hate
If I Could Paint A Portrait
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Tag Archives: love
A Doleful Young Man Called Cook
A doleful young man called Cook
Sought a sequestered nook.
His thoughts where muddy
And he needed to study
So there he took
A book.
A young lady was there
With auburn hair.
And Cook
His thoughts no longer muddy
Forsook
Both book
And study …
An Observation
The moralist judgement passes
On men in glasses
Who make passes
At pretty lasses.
While the wise observe that those who criticise,
Will never find favour in a girl’s bright eyes.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/observe/).
In This Forest Glade
In this forest glade
I think on the shade.
All mens desires
For women and empires
Fade.
The shout
Of the brave
Is lost in the grave.
And all fires burn out
In the end,
Be they lover or friend.
My Grandfather
Creosote
On a hot
Day.
I lack the words to say
How the smell
(I know so well)
Carried me away
To where I can not stay,
For he has gone into the forest green
(Which I have seen
Though I can not follow him yet).
I can not forget
Those happy days (now tinged with regret)
For a fence does divide.
Yet he lives inside
My heart
And is forever a part
Of me.
The land I see
Beyond the fence is lush
With tree and bush.
I can not rush
And no not when
I shall see him again.
But see I must
For I am dust
As he
Who loved me.
Inchoate
Inchoate desire.
A fire
Fanned by a girl’s sweet scent.
No need to repent
As yet.
Come tomorrow
There will be sorrow
And regret.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/inchoate/).
At The Start
At the start
A heart
I sought.
I thought
That I caught
Delicious fish,
A dainty dish
For a sorrowing king,
But the thing
Was an eel.
The first deal
Being done
I continued to run
After fun.
The sun
Sometimes shone
(As it does today)
As I half-heartedly did play
At romance.
I still dance
From time to time
And, perchance
The false
Waltz
Is set down in rhyme.
The Afternoon Sun Will Soon Be Done
The afternoon sun
Will soon be done
And each bird that does sing
Will fold it’s wing
In sleep.
Why do I keep
Indoors and maintain
This sad refrain?
All will pass,
Lad and lass,
But until then
There is ink in my pen
And I trust sufficient time
For more than mere rhyme.
A Flower Found Within A Book
Shall I compose a poem about a blood red
Poppy that I discovered in a book,
And how I took
It dead
From within the grieving leaves?
Shall I say
How, yesterday
I placed that flower
In a carved
Box where it will languish, love starved
For countless hour?
The book I had when we met.
I forget
Why the flower (paper thin)
Was there with it’s sharp pin
Still intact.
I remember the fact
Of you and me
Buying part
Of a once living tree.
Each heart
Is dying or dead
Valentine
Ah the joy of Valentine!
The loving words said
And the quaffing of wine,
Then waking up in bed
Beside your love divine.
Gazing on her
(She’s so young and fair)
You think “upon my life
She is not my wife!”.
K Morris - Poet 