It is a truism that we can not live in the past
But when the present seems barren as plastic
It is tempting to believe that we can stretch the elastic
Of this fact
And act
In denial
Of the vast supermarket aisle,
Where meaning’s lack
Is concretized in musak.
It is cold.
Should I be bold
And go outside?
Or like a tortoise, hibernate?
I can not decide.
It is late
In the year.
A thought most drear
Does take
Hold .
Not all tortoises awake
From the cold.
I pray
For a spring day.
A butterfly flits from flower to flower.
It’s hour
‘Tis brief,
But man knows grief
The cold rain does fall.
I recall
We stood in the shelter
Of the old hall.
Helter skelter
The years whirl by.
Now I
Sit alone
In my home
Thinking on the cold rain
And the old hall that will remain
When I also make my way
Into those woods where we were wont to play.
—
How do you imagine me?
Do you see
Danger smouldering behind dark glasses?
A young man, superficially charming,
My good looks disarming
Girls who dance
To my tune of false romance?
Do you see me
In a sports car
With a false number plate
Where girls go too far
And learn too late
The meaning of hate?
You don’t see a young
Woman, my compassion flung
Aside.
I shall decide
Which girl shall work tonight,
To bring delight
To you good sir.
I swear
That you wouldn’t guess
That beneath my demure dress
There beats a heart of stone.
My voice on the phone
Is matter-of-fact.
(I never discuss the actual act
But we glean
What each other mean
In this game of charades
Where the cards
Are stacked in my favour).
You can have any flavour
You like tonight
But mind your language for I have learned, over the years
That walls have ears
And many a business ends in tears
When a girl is indiscreet
About who she will meet.
Sometimes my heart is still
Up here on this hill,
High above sea level.
There is no devil
Calling to me
And I hear,
Loud and clear
The bird so wild and free
Singing,
His song for a moment bringing
An end
To all I pretend
To be …
There was a young man from Hull
Who owned a large prize bull.
They lived in a glass house
Along with a mouse named Clouse
And their lives where never dull!
Nearly 2 am.
I am Awake when
I have no desire
For fire
(only sleep).
Yet I must keep
Alert
To avert disaster.
Though in truth
It is my bad luck
That it has already struck,
But the roof
Will not fall
And I shall recall
This impostor of a disaster
With laughter.
There was a young lady named Hocking
Who wore a single stocking.
She went down town
Her sorrows to drown.
The bishop found it shocking!
“The Poet And The Workman” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Refractions”. Refractions is available from Amazon and can be found in the Kindle store here, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L5UC2H2.
—
Poet: “Why do you dig a hole my good man?”
Workman: “Because I can,
While those who are not able
Sit at a table,
Wasting time
Trying to make their verses rhyme!”
Poet: “I have a plan
To make my lines scan.
Kindly move your van
And I will be on my way
To versify the livelong day”.
“Workman: Why bless my soul
This poet droll
So intent was he on his goal
Of writing verse,
That the man’s fallen into that there hole,
To be a rhymer is most perverse!”
K Morris - Poet 