Often do I have cause
For thought, yet seldom pause
Here for long.
Perhaps it is a strong
Desire to forget my fate
Which leads me, (be it early or late),
Without a backward glance
Lest by some mischance
I see my own ghost,
To post-haste, exit the graveyard gate
And enter again
This temporary realm of men.
What if we finally conquer death, and he is no more?
We continue to go about our hum-drum lives while others are suffering loss.
This poem came to me while sitting in my study. Shadows played upon the walls and brought to mind the impermanence of things. I am visually impaired but can see the play of shadows on my wall, although I cannot read print.
Many thanks to Morgen Bailey for publishing my poem, “My Old Clock I wind” on her blog. For the poem please visit here, https://morgenbailey.wordpress.com/2017/01/16/post-weekend-poetry-139-my-old-clock-i-wind-by-kevin-morris/.
In my bed.
My head
Filled with warm fuzzy thought.
Falling
Into the arms of sleep,
My attention is suddenly caught
By the bark
Of the fox calling
In the dark.
He is my old enemy and friend
And will be with me at the end.
One can pretend
Otherwise
And gaze in mock surprise
When his final bark is heard.
But, in the end
It is that old fox, death, who will have the last word.
These dry
Leaves do not die.
They become one with the earth.
A derth
Of green
Is seen,
Then a rebirth,
The old, in the new
Takes root
And does heavenwards shute.
The past, present and future one may see
In the mighty tree,
While you and me
Pass by
With a sigh
As we ponder on our mortality.
On such a day, when the winter sun
Casts my shadow upon yonder wall,
It is difficult to recall
That all
This will, one day be done.
In future will some other one, sitting here, and seeing their shadow fall
Upon this self-same wall,
Know that they may not forestall
The night
When dancing shadows are, forever lost from sight.
—
(Written on 3 December 2016, while sitting in my study).
My old clock I wind
And much philosophy therein find.
I can bring
The pendulum’s swing
To a stop With my hand,
Yet I can not command
Time to default
On his duty and halt
The passing of the years.
He has no ears
For our laughter and tears
And his sickle will swing on
Long after we are gone.
Shall we speak as though we will go on forever?
I saw a feather
Borne on a summer’s breeze.
It did please
Me
To see
So carefree
A thing
Dance on the balmy air.
The breeze became a gale,
Then came the hail.
The feather
Was by the tempest tossed,
And forever
Lost
In that passing storm.
K Morris - Poet 