The disquiet
Of quiet.
Turn up the sound
And drown
Out the bird
Whose song
Before long
Will stab you to the heart
Causing tears to start.
I, for my part
Listen
Though the tears glisten.
I become a child, for a while
Without guile,
Smile
And yearn to be free
Of me.
The pneumatic
Girl’s ecstatic
Sigh
Causes him to wonder Why
No passion lights her azure eye.
Such style
And oh, Her smile.
He will resile
But that smile …
“I will play awhile
Then resile”.
It is a beautiful day.
They will make hay
As the sun does shine.
Women and wine
Are surely divine,
So he will make hay
While the weather stays fine.
While strolling around Kew Gardens, with my friend Brian on Saturday 30 July, we came across Leo Marx’s moving poem “The Life that I have”, on a bench which stood in one of the many tranquil spots to be found in the gardens, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/telegraphtv/3460867/Virginia-McKenna-recites-The-Life-That-I-Have.html.
Kevin
There was a young lady called Michaela
Who met a deep sea whaler.
By the light of the moon
He brandished his harpoon,
That intrepid, handsome sailor
You neither sleep nor weep,
While I sleep, the sleep of the just or unjust?
Awaking, lust
Is replaced
By a kind of guilt
Mixed with tenderness?
I can not see your face
And the Quilt
Covers
That
Which
Perhaps
Should
Have
Remained
Undiscovered.
Skeleton
Cupboard
Not
Yet
Discovered.
Brush
Under
Carpet
Swept,
Sweeps
No
More.
There was a young man called Mark
Whose view of the world was dark.
Leaning over
The white cliffs of Dover
He said, “To jump would be such a lark”!
This excess heat
Will defeat
My erratic thought.
Me caught
Between the desire
For fire
And water.
Yet Poseidon’s daughter
Does cavort
Killing all thought.
Desire
Fire
Water
Daughter.
Forgetfulness in arms
‘Ere the alarms
Of morn
Warn
Of another sultry day
Where man must work, not play.
There was a poet called Kevin
Who said, “It being well after eleven,
‘Tis time, I think
To take a drink.
Yes that would be very heaven!
His friend made reply
With a sorrowful sigh,
“It has only just turned seven
In the morning, Kevin”!
How easy to perceive the bear
In his lair,
Waiting for the girl who, having tentatively climbed the stair
Enters there.
He doesn’t care
And will have his way
The wagging fingers say.
Wine is opened
And trite
Words at night
Are spoken,
But there is no force.
The evening runs it’s course.
More trite words are said
Then, bed.
Morning breaks.
Her leave she takes
With a kiss on the cheek, not lips
That strips
The situation bare
Yet there
Is in that peck, perhaps a kind of care.
K Morris - Poet 