The wind blows through the park,
My mood is bleak and dark.
Teenage voices glad,
What hope do they have?
In a world gone mad,
Should not one be sad?
The weather speaks to me,
Why can not man be free,
Flying with the breeze,
Amongst the dancing trees.
Familiarity makes the unbearable so-so.
Music from a phone playing.
Exploring hands.
Acrobatics in the bedroom.
The brook, once babbling is choked with weeds.
Diseased trees.
Fat brown paper envelope.
Shopping is the new religion.
A fox he went a-hunting, a-hunting with a bear,
They tracked a huntsman down, they tracked him to his lair.
Said the huntsman to the animals, “Two against one simply isn’t fair. Give a man a sporting chance to escape from his lair”.
Said those two to the huntsman, “Sir we have no gun. Come out, we’ll give you a sporting chance, lets all have some fun”.
Through an open window the huntsman tried to run.
The animals followed in hot pursuit, then came the fun.
You choke on your cornflakes over stories of vicars and hoares,
And when the death sentence is imposed you give loud applause.
When they call for moral regeneration your first in the queue,
Oh my friend what if they knew what you do.
Behind closed doors the lamplight is low,
To the girl, barely legal, you are “Mr So and So”.
When the deed’s done homewards you go,
To the wife, and the kids – fine, upstanding Mr So and So.
You made a good fist of it. Carefully crafted words conveying what you had to convey.
Are you a believer? The idea makes one guffaw. No not guffaw for that would be impolite and rudeness in such settings is not the done thing.
The audience clapped as one has to do.
You left a job well done. One does what one has to do and should never shoot the messenger. Does the messenger have an opinion? His but to convey. But, unlike the carrier of messages you spun us a tale – err you said it as it is.
Someone once remarked that reading between the lines of newspapers with diametrically opposing views will reveal the approximate truth.
You did what you had to do, but I am glad it was you, not I who did it.
He collected dolls both black and white.
Twas his pain and his delight,
To hold them tight at night.
Few words where said,
As they lay upon his bed
With eyes cold and dead.
He touched their skin so real,
Though love they could not feel.
One doll his heart did steal,
But her passion was unreal.
His soul it turned to steel,
No longer could he feel.
Doors close on innocence that knows
A girl in her short summer dress.
Does she suspect?
A budding rose.
Men traverse long dark roads
Oh Microsoft I love you.
I love the way you say in tones sweet
“document 1. Microsoft Word is not responding”.
I relish the opportunity you furnish for me to drink my tea while you hang with such grace and poise.
For the chance to eat my cereal while you continue to stick obstinately I give thanks.
I was in need of a shower so thanks, once more for affording me the opportunity to wash and dress as you continue to hang.
Thank you dear Microsoft for, finally allowing me to complete my poem which runs to an entire 4 lines.
Yours ever so gratefully,
A Humble Computer User.
(The above was written in response to the difficulties experienced while writing my poem, “Epitaph On A Poet” which appeared on this blog earlier today).
A book of poems upon his grave
Could not the poet save.
The few his words touched
Failed to keep him from the dust.
K Morris - Poet 