“If there be such a thing
As false memory,
Why then does recollection sting
As a demented wasp?
The physical pain
May go, but the buzz
Does remain,
Churning,
Returning
Again and again.
The lunatics have taken over the asylum
But who are the lunatics and who are the sane?
And why in the brain
Does the imaginary sting
Remain?
The plays the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king”.
“But Claudius is long since dead
And Hamlet is mad”,
The doctor said.
She plays
And the last rays
Of the setting sun
Catch her hand
That can command
An ocean.
A final motion
Of her wrist
And their game is done.
Harken
As gardeners their scythes
Sharpen
And see, how the skies
Darken.
The sound of a blackbird
By me heard
As I savour Autumn’s scent,
After a day spent
In old London Town.
A myriad of leaves have fallen down
Today
(and trees too they say),
But it is all to soon
For ‘Tis only June …
—
(Note: This poem was prompted by my walk home from work, on 6 June. The evening felt Autumnal, despite it being early June).
Many thanks to Victoria for publishing my poem, “Feather” on her excellent site, Rhyme. To read my poem please visit, https://rhymepoetry.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/feather/.
I dreamed
And in my dream it seemed
To me that I did look
Upon my book.
It’s back
Did my photograph lack
And what had been
Could no longer be seen.
She changes from jeans to a dress,
To impress for a while,
And bring a smile
To the face
Of a man who slips
Ever further from grace.
Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
Sometimes
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.
In the wood’s dark
Heart the breeze
Whispers in the trees
Words that I can not comprehend.
May god send
Me peace
And this breeze
Never cease.
The horrific terrorist attack, which took place in London on the evening of 4 June, brought to mind my poem “There is a quiet place out of reach”. Those who carried out this atrocity have “empty souls”, indeed some may doubt whether they possess any soul whatever. Had it not been for the swift action of the police, in shooting dead the terrorists, this terrible incident could have been even worse. Fanaticism and barbarism must be withstood and defeated.
Kevin
“There is a quiet place out of reach
To those who hatred preach.
They prate,
And understand too late,
Or perhaps not at all,
That pride comes before a fall.
Words meaningful as a harlot’s compliment fall
On the ear
Of men who hear what they want to hear.
The truth clear
Is, I fear,
Too often lost in sound and beer.
The fanatic’s words drear
Will fill the empty soul
Of those whose goal
Is the destruction of the whole
Liberal project;
To which they object
Without knowing why.
Then, pointlessly, die”.
K Morris - Poet 