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.
I know that these trees
Are older than man
And the church
Which so many men pass
Without a glance
Or sigh
Hurrying by.
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
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.
I heard birds
And the clock,
And wondered,
When, and where
My heart
Will stop.
Walking through the churchyard
On a freezing evening,
I consider progress. ,
And pass by
Fading inscriptions
On tombstones.
These trees
Speak to me
Of mortality.
Touching old bark
And cold gravestone,
I hark
To the birds
Still heard
By me.
I often find
The fox’s bark
Fills my mind.
How fast the light
Fades in woodland glades
And becomes the dark
Of suffocating night.
In the park
Where children play
His cold, sharp bark
Seems to say
You spend your day
In the sun
But the night
Blots out light
And your day
Is done.
(The final stanza is very long compared to the first 2 and I am not sure how the poem hangs together. Would welcome the views of my readers. Thanks. Kevin).
I can try
To immortalise my clock
In a rhyme.
And, when I stop
My rhyme
May still engage
On fading page,
Though I
Shall know it not.
On 3 December, I published this poem, https://kmorrispoet.com/2022/12/03/i-passed-a-log/. Below is a slightly reworked version of my composition entitled A Fallen Tree:
A fallen tree
Spoke to me
On a
December day.
Once it stood
In ancient wood.
Now I
Pass by
As December grows colder
And I ever older.
K Morris - Poet 