This wine
Is not divine.
Yet it is good.
The sun may shine
On me tomorrow.
And the clock on the wall
Has no will at all.
Nameless women survive in a rhyme
And time
Would laugh, if it could
At poets who obsess
Over their reputation,
And the unknowing tick tock,
Of the uncaring, ensnaring clock.
A tall tree
Arrested me
As I
Passed by
The churchyard yesterday.
When I
Go away
The tree will stay.
And others will pass by.
And, perhaps, think as I.
Below are 2 slightly different versions of a poem I composed earlier today.
—
A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
In poetry, it survives.
—
A bird on the wing
Is such a temporary thing.
Though, when it dies,
It’s poem may survive.
The below poem, “On Hearing the Tick Tock of the Clock”, can be found in my collection “Light and Shade”:
On hearing the tick tock
Of the clock
On the wall,
I know not
What to write,
For the clock
Says it all.
There is comfort in this tree,
For it was here before me.
And will stay
When I am clay.
To comfort those who pass
Along this self-same path
A few, perhaps
Gazing at this tree
May remember me.
I laugh,
For a tree
Has no vanity.
I hear the rain, again.
How it does pour,
Over city street, and moor
When I go my way,
The rain will stay.
But others will remain,
Listening to the rain.
I rarely write
At night,
When the light
Grows dim.
For the line
Betwixt sleeper’s breath,
And death,
Is passing thin.
Under nature’s great roof
I feel the truth
In wind and rain.
When I am gone
I shall be one
With wind and rain.
Sometimes I see
You in front of me,
Or imagine you at
My side. I
Go to pat
You under the table,
Where you so often sat.
I am not able.
You are not coming back.
On a most ancient grave
Is writ,
“Here lies the great Dave.
His wit
Was razor-sharp.
Yet, for all his art,
He ended in this grave!”.
K Morris - Poet 