I have lain awake listening for the owl’s cry.
A note that chills
Thrills
Then does die.
One day
This bird of prey
Will carry my soul away,
Or so the supersticious say.
Mice hide
While I, in my pride
Decide
The owl’s erie cry
Signifies that I will die.
The bird has no interest in me
So why can I not be free
From his cry
That to my window nigh
does rise, then, as suddenly, die?
No light garish and red
Only night’s dead hour,
and the flower
Whose bloom
Was gone to soon.
The moon
Shonne on
The rose picked
And stripped
By the wind that trifles,
Rifles,
And is gone.
The bee
Full of lustfull glee,
The budding flower,
Aches to probe.
She holds him in her power,
Disrobes
And does expose
The tender mysteries of the rose.
He takes
And her passion wakes,
Until winter gaunt
Puts an end to flaunt
Of bee
And rosetree.
I Seek for grace,
In nature’s ever changing face.
Yesterday
the sheeting rain chased empty thought away.
This morning, The wind purifies,
Birds sing in sunny skies.
At times, my spirit flies
Or goes asighing with the breeze.
Would
That I could
Soar high up in the trees
And be lost among the leaves.
The rain pours
And Thor’s
Hammer knocks
Against crumbling locks
As he our civilisation mocks.
A few, hearing the thunder
Lift their eyes in wonder
From the TV,
While fewer still, know what it is to be free.
If I could touch the spirit behind the rain
And understand the bird’s call,
My brain
Could not contain
The pain
And joy that does underlie
It all.
Where I to comprehend why
I would surely die
And be forever lost in the endless sky.
Rain and birds
Together heard.
Their sound
Profound
Mingles, in joy beyond words.
Scent on a pillow fades.
In woodland glades
The willow
Weeps
As dusk creeps
Over the land.
The sand
Where lover’s feet Trod
Is printless now.
Oh see how
The grassy sod
Forms a bed
Where the dead
Sleep
And those that loved once, no longer weep.
The wind blows today.
It will go away
In time leaving me refreshed,
Yet my soul can not for long rest.
Children lark about
And shout.
I doubt
My brain
Which runs like an express train
Will
For long be still.
Listening to the leaves
I perceive
A need to write.
There is delight, in the wind chimes which on occasion sound,
Speaking of things more profound
Than I who am tied to this shifting ground.
The wind has dropped now
And I wonder how
My poem will be understood
By those who would
Try
To find meaning in words that erratically fly,
From one who sits listening to a barking dog, who cares not
A jot
For what
I have to say
On this sunny, wind swept day.
“The Blackbird on the wing, so sweetly sings
And brings
Joy to we two
Who
Through
These wild flowers
Walk and talk,
Whiling away many an hour”.
But she put no store
In my words
Nor in the singing of the birds,
Which went unheard,
For the ring
She wore
Was connected to the Internet of Things.
K Morris - Poet 