A serpent with a smooth tongue
Did feel
The heel
Of a girl’s shoe
As through
The grass
It slithered.
The girl quivered
But knew not she had been stung
By one who lives among
Rakes in suits
Who’s boots
Will trample a maiden’s heart.
She had not the art
To comprehend
The depths to which man will descend
Nor how he does attain his fell ends.
Carpet by heels worn.
Man’s heart torn
Asunder
By blades that plunder
His nightly slumber.
To and fro
The dancers go.
Ever changing,
Exchanging
Well worn words.
Love my friend, is for the birds …
Are we just our geans
Means
To a meaningless conclusion,
A confusion of arms, legs and bed?
The head
Is often overruled
By the fool
Lust.
Into eternity we thrust
Desperately hoping to leave one of our kind
Behind
Ere our dalliance ends in dust.
I will be attending the Y-Tuesday poetry reading event on Tuesday 7 June, at 7:45 pm where I will be reading some of my poetry. If you are in the vicinity please do pop in to hear me and other poets reading our work. For details of Y-Tuesday events please visit (https://www.facebook.com/ytuesday.poetry).
Kevin
Is it better to be a contented pig
And dig
In the mire,
Or a rich man who’s every desire
Is met
And yet
Each new toy
Brings but a fleeting joy?
Or is it preferable to be a philosopher who thinks
And ever further sinks
Into a slough of Despond?
How should one respond
To such a question, other than to interrogate the mind
For an answer it is impossible to find?
—
The above was prompted by this post, (https://alittledaydreamer.com/2016/05/30/do-we-need-the-answers-to-everything/)
I saw Utopia like some bright star.
It burned far
Away and the nearer
I drew the clearer
It shonne on bones white
That glistened in it’s baileful light.
I saw man, his head in a book,
He dained not to look
At the earth but dwelt
In a world of ideas and felt
That if only man would conform to his abstract theory
This planet dreary
Would become a paradise, where man would reach for the sky.
As time passed he wondered why
The star
Was just as far
Away
As the day
On which he first read Marx or some other sage.
The theorists’s rage
He did mark
With tombstones stark
Which the idealist built
Employing the spilt
Tears of men
Who when
He spoke of Utopia shook their heads
With dread.
One Utopia has fled
Yet the blood that bled
Will blead
Again
If terror’s reign
Remains unconstrained
By the knowledge of past pain.
My dog yelps in his sleep.
Can a canine weep?
And what thoughts of joy or pain
Pass through his sleeping brain?
In an exstasy of sound and smell
You dwell.
The freshly roasted chicken, just out of reach is sheer hell
To my friend
Who’s end
Is food and play.
Your day
Will not be so long as mine,
Yet we humans whine
While you in the moment live
And give such love
To your god above
Who sits envying you your state of grace.
Would that I could change place
With you
My friend true.
He feared he would drown
In his words profound.
But the water barely wet his toes.
One day the poet knows
The river will run dry
And try
Though he will,
His muse shall be, forever still
“The Blackbird on the wing, so sweetly sings
And brings
Joy to we two
Who
Through
These wild flowers
Walk and talk,
Whiling away many an hour”.
But she put no store
In my words
Nor in the singing of the birds,
Which went unheard,
For the ring
She wore
Was connected to the Internet of Things.
A man all his efforts bent
To the exclusion of all else,
On the construction of a tower called self.
The higher it went
The less content
He grew.
Breaking through
the clouds
And feeling proud
He saw
A boy soar,
Then fall, seaward bound.
Icarus was the boy’s name
And from his fall nothing profound
Came
For man continues his building just the same.
K Morris - Poet 