Doubtless, nymphs have played
In this woodland glade,
Where bright flowers bloom
And are gone ,
Oh too soon!
Yet, another one
Will, doubtless play
As satyrs say,
“tis hot today!.
But, tis true
That satyrs too
Must fade away.
Walking through the wood
In this weather hot
I think on should,
And should not.
I shall be good.
But, I have heard tell
That nymphs herein
Dwell.
Some say, that they
Are shy.
I shall stare at the sky
For, therein,
Sin
Is not.
Above, the hot
Sky,
Whilst below
Nymphs go
By.
Pan plays on his pipe
To the delight
Of woodland nymphs.
Who have, long since
Ceased to see,
In his ageing pipe,
Beyond the delight
Of his poetry.
Yesterday evening, a good friend was leafing through my collection of poems, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”. As she leafed through, she read aloud several of the poems, including the below piece, which is entitled “Labyrinth”,
“I hear the minotaur roar,
And see the vampire soar.
Lost in the labyrinth of my mind,
Can I a way out find,
Via Ariadne’s thread,
Or must I remain in the land of the dead?
A place where the shadows forever fall,
And no birds call”.
(https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28513305-lost-in-the-labyrinth-of-my-mind).
—
I shall be taking a break from blogging for the next few days, and will return on Thursday 17th or Friday 18th April.
Kevin
A young lady named Dawn
Has most solemnly sworn,
That whilst out last night
By the moon’s bright light,
She saw a leprechaun!
—
A young lady named Dawn
Has stolen my leprechaun.
Whilst out last night
by the star’s bright light
She stole my leprechaun!
—
When a young lady named Dawn
Said, “I saw a leprechaun!”,
My friend Miss Spink
Gave me a wink,
Which displeased that young lady Dawn!
In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
Who
When
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?
Who
On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.
Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Cry.
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.
You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.
There are no pockets in a shroud.
The proud
And the humble
All must tumble
Into the grave.
But you should save
One solitary coin
To enjoin
The ferryman to take you on
Your final journey.
Some find their muse in forests green
Where the nymph (so rarely seen)
Is brought to life on paper.
Many a romantic caper
Takes place on virgin page,
That pristine stage
Where maid
Is forever staid.
Other poets reach their sweating hand
Towards the lone phone,
So as to command
For a while,
A nymph’s enigmatic smile
They say
That nymphs play
In the ancient wood.
Yet as I stood
There yesterday,
No nymphs did play.
Waking this morning
I sensed a warning
In rock.
Mysteries may unlock
As Pan pipes play,
But the nymphs they
Will not stay
While gazing in the glass
She heard a mocking laugh.
On looking behind
She did find
Narcissus lounging on the bed.
“What, you here? again!” she said
K Morris - Poet 