Under the once solid ice sheet
We meet
A demon some persist
In maintaining does not exist.
Deep in his throat he rumbles,
And humanity stumbles
As yet another ice sheet crumbles.
Melting Ice
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I remember the cut-through,
People drew
Graffiti on the fence,
Perhaps deriving a sense
Of power from their obscene scrawls
On wooden walls.
The Sex Pistols featured there, and perhaps the name of some hapless girl
Was inscribed
In lust and pride.
How the years whirl
By.
Now I can not spy
The narrow place
Where I would trace
Nature’s face
In nettle and bramble
As I did scramble
Through the thicket of my mind.
Now I can not find
the old track
That leads back
To whence I came.
A barred gate
Patiently does wait
And beyond it, my fate?
Cadence
Wind chimes
Sound,
Their cadence more profound
Than these sad rhymes.
Happy Christmas
To all my followers and those of you who have liked and commented on my work, I wish you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas and a new year full of happiness.
Very best wishes, Kevin
I Laud The Mass
I laud the mass
For to do otherwise is considered crass.
One can not have the brass
Neck to deny
The truth that justice in the majority does lie.
Who am I
To raise
My voice in praise
Of the view
That the few
Sometimes best construe
What is just and true?
Fire
Give me an open fire.
My heart’s desire
Sees my dog,
Like some huge log
Lying there.
Into the blaze I stare
And watch the present and the past dance
And romance
Amidst the eternal flame.
There Was A Young Man Called Mitch
There was a young man called Mitch
Who married a beautiful witch.
They where happy together,
Whatever the weather
And she owned a cat called Stich.
—
There was a young man called Mitch
Who married a very old witch.
She gave him a love potion,
Which caused quite a commotion
As it really made him itch!
Where Do We Go?
Where do we go, when we die?
Who knows? Not I.
Flies our soul, unto the sky?
Who knows, not I.
There Was A Young Man Called Mitch
There was a young man called Mitch
Who said he would die in a ditch
To defend what he had”.
Then he looked sad,
For you see, he wasn’t very rich.
Does He Care?
Stillettos encase neat
Little feet.
Bare
Perfectly toned legs invite
And excite.
Mutual delight
They may find,
To temporarily bind
Them together, but does he care
To probe what is in there?
No, not that obvious place,
The space
Where many a man will
Thrill,
Spill
Then go.
No, I mean her brain
That does contain
The whole girl.
The Whirl
Of loves, thoughts and emotion,
The vast ocean
Of her soul.
K Morris - Poet 