On a cold autumn day
I find that time
Has stopped. But my clock
May be wound today.
Yet, one day
I will not
Know the day or time.
On a Cold Autumn Day
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Tag Archives: mortality
I Do Not Fear Another Dying Year
I do not fear
Another dying year
But simply pass
Along the churchyard path
Observing these fallen leaves.
Autumn does not deceive.
But lust
Does, I find
Distract the mind
From dust,
While autumn time reminds
Us that we all
As autumn leaves
Must fall.
I Am Not Indifferent to the Charms
I am not indifferent to the charms
Of a young woman’s arms.
So when your arm wound around me
Of course I was flattered
For you are much younger than me.
I have had dreams shattered
So will believe that it was merely
Out of friendly regard
That your youthful arm
Wound around me.
In the churchyard
On my way home alone
I passed by cold stones
And contrasted their charms
With your warm arms.
I Touch the Gravestone
I touch the gravestone
Warm from the afternoon sun.
I have come
Here alone,
Many a time
My mind
Full of rhyme.
But under the cold gravestone
There is neither sun
Nor rhyme.
Doze
As I
Grow older, I
Doze more
In my armchair.
I wonder
When and Where
I will die.
Modernity
Amidst these windswept trees
I feel free
Of modernity.
For the breeze
Drowns out the noise
Of broken
Toys.
In this wood
A tree
Fall
Could end all
This modernity,
Leaving no rhyme
Behind.
Man (Revised Poem)
A couple of days ago, I published a poem entitled “Man” https://kmorrispoet.com/2023/07/14/man/. Below is a slightly amended and extended version of that poem:
I know that these trees
Are Older than man
And the church
Which so many men pass
Without a glance
Or a sigh
As they hurry by.
Man
I know that these trees
Are older than man
And the church
Which so many men pass
Without a glance
Or sigh
Hurrying by.
Foxes
The below poem contains an expletive. I make no apology for this, as poetry should be honest:
“The foxes are fucking“, you said.
A vulgar thing to say,
But we where on our way
To bed.
And I,
Hearing their cry
Pondered on lust
And the vulgarity of you.
But what you said was true.
And we 2 could see
That oft in lust
We hide from dust.
When I Die
When I die
What will people see
In my poetry?
Will they read me
At all?
I will not know
Whether tis so
For in my pall
My poetry
Must surely go.
Though perhaps it may
Not be so.
K Morris - Poet 