Imagine the scene.
She craves nicotine.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
I regret
That I can not answer yes to the question.
Her scent, and perhaps a suggestion …
Yet I can not repent
That I do not choke
Myself with smoke.
Sometimes I attempt to shout down the birds
And choose
To lose
Myself in words.
But as a dart
Ere long
Their song
Pierces my heart.
On occasions I try
To escape the owl’s cry
And pretend
There is no end
To meet
And sheet.
But as night falls,
He calls to me.
The bird’s call
To man, who’s fall
Brought
Him knowledge. Now caught
Up in his thought
He hears words,
While the birds
Sing,
Welcoming the spring.
The black girl talks in a loud voice.
The white man drinks
And thinks
On choice.
The wine is okay.
He knows she will stay
For a while
With her fixed smile.
They chat
About this and that.
“Have you dated white guys before?”
He asks opening the bedroom door.
She was hot as the weather
As hell for leather,
They rolled in the heather
With the chink of coin
To join
Them together.
There was a young man called Birch
Who never would go to church.
The vicar did say
“For your soul I shall pray.
You reprehensible young man called Birch!”
A thrumming in the wire.
Rising desire
By commuters to enter
The tube’s centre.
Wrapped in the tunnel’s dark embrace
We race
Towards our destination.
A brief anticipation,
Then we disgorge at our station.
On checking my email this morning, I was delighted to learn that my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” (http://moyhill.com/lost/) has received a great review.
To read the review please visit (https://laurenwalsburg.com/2017/03/21/review-lost-in-the-labyrinth-of-my-mind-by-k-morris/).
There was a young man called Matt
Who said “poetry is old hat”.
His brother Jim
Disagreed with him.
It ended in a spat!
Would
That I could
Find Chrysanthemums in bud.
For those in bloom
Are gone to soon.
I remember the sweet scent
Of the chrysanthemums that bloomed
In my grandfather’s garden.
Entombed,
They are long since spent.
K Morris - Poet 