If I died yet dreamed on
How would I know that I had gone?
If I Died
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Tag Archives: poems
Truth
My books among delph
On a shelf
May live.
I hope they pleasure give
To a soul
In search of a part of the whole.
The complete truth is impossible to find,
Yet the mind
Seeks on
Long after the poet has gone
To the skies
Where truth lies …
Midas
“His crisp white shirt.
Her short skirt.
The way they flirt
One would never know
It where so”.
“Know what?”
“That Cupid’s arrow was never shot.
She has sold
Her soul for Midas’s gold,
And the gods fortell
It won’t end well”.
The Hidden Heart
Lying there
You appear not to care.
A motion,
A building ocean.
A reaction,
Leading to a kind of satisfaction
On someone’s part
While the heart
Sighs
And inwardly dies
The Poet and the Workman
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”!
Interlude
A brief interlude
Of smooth bare arms
And female charms.
This verse crude
Must conclude
In lust
And dust.
Midnight Rose
No light garish and red
Only night’s dead hour,
and the flower
Whose bloom
Was gone to soon.
The moon
Shonne on
The rose picked
And stripped
By the wind that trifles,
Rifles,
And is gone.
Bee and Rose
The bee
Full of lustfull glee,
The budding flower,
Aches to probe.
She holds him in her power,
Disrobes
And does expose
The tender mysteries of the rose.
He takes
And her passion wakes,
Until winter gaunt
Puts an end to flaunt
Of bee
And rosetree.
Rue
Waking to the alarm
He thinks on the charm
Of woman (not here).
Yet the imagined ideal
Does, I fear
So often obscure the real.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Girls ponder on jewels
While fools Misconstrue
What is true.
Hamlet will gather Rue
Ere the day is through.
—
In Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” it is, of course Ophelia (not Hamlet) who gathers rue.
Poetics
Should a poem conform
To some abstract
Form
Of rhyme and metre?
Trying to hard may defeat her.
The poet that is, who striving for perfection
Feels only dejection
And bangs her head
Until she sees red
Or shooting stars,
Which rhymes with cars,
But not a publishing contract,
that is a fact …
K Morris - Poet 