To recognise the human and still do.
To see a heart true
And yet go through
With it, for a deal is a deal,
And ‘tis foretold
That an agreement sealed
By gold
Will hold
For what is sold is forever sold.
The heart may command
The hand
To withdraw
From the wolf’s paw.
But the forn
Torn
By circumstance dallies
With the wolf, who yawns
While the fawn tallies
The cost
Of innocence lost.
Sugar so sweet
Looks down on girls who, on ill shod feet
Patrol the cold and lonely street.
She turns up her delicate nose
At those who in cheap clothes
Under street lamps pose.
Sugar loves fine wines
And in expensive restaurants dines
With her darling Honey
Who spends his money
As though there were no tomorrow,
Thereby concealing some inner sorrow?
Sugar so sweet
And the girl on the street
Engage in the same profession.
Discretion
Is sugar’s middle name
But, in the end they are both the same.
—
Alone
At home
I sensed an intruder in my hall.
My mouth was dry
And I could not call
Out for help.
For his throat I felt
And smelt
A stench as of a thing long since deceased.
All grappling ceased
And through my fear
I recognised death
Standing near.
—
The above poem is based on a dream I dreamed several days ago. While dreaming, I was conscious of a profound sense of fear, heightened by the terrible stench emminating from the intruder in my home. However it was only on awakening that I recognised the presence as that of the angel of death.
The stallion getting old
Feels the cold,
But When he runs with the mares
His cares
Seem far away.
He doth play
At romance
But cannot prance
As once was the case.
Another pretty face
Becomes as one
With lovers long since gone.
There are always mares
With which to pair,
To keep him warm
As the dawn grey
Slinks over the horizon
Ushering in yet another day.
I hear
The sea in my ear.
It’s waves ever near
Go swish swish.
I wish
They would withdraw.
But what if the roar
Should cease
Leaving a deafly peace?
To be blind and without sound
Is to some a horror profound.
Yet many who in silence dwell
Do not consider it hell.
Society puts it’s fear
On those who can not hear
And finds
In the blind
An object of pity
For it is easy to patronise
Those with no eyes.
“I could not cope
And would abandon hope”
They say
While the disabled shrug
And get on with their day.
What do you think
As we drink
the wine,
Your fingers entwined in mine?
Do I want to know
And, if so
Is It out of a genuine care
To grasp Where
you have been
Or what seen?
Do I really want you to say
What thoughts of woe
Hold sway
During your average day?
I find it is easy to be kind.
But better not to talk
Of the demons that stalk
Our head.
Let us retire
To bed
For drink is the sire
Of desire
And in love’s fire
We burn
Ere we return
To our sorrow.
Let tomorrow
Go hang.
We will play today
Though the sky has long since turned grey.
My muses do tease
Please
And oft times freeze
My heart.
Entangled in my art
They know not that they are caught
Nor what the poet wrought
On once virgin page.
Upon my paper stage
They will forever play
Yet, from life, both I and them will fade away.
Young women of fashion
Excite the passion
Of older guys,
Who yearn to possess
The girl in the short dress,
And caress
Her perfectly formed thighs.
losing himself in those soft brown eyes,
Man tries
But rebuffed,
He acts tough,
Inwardly sighs
While inside, a little bit of him dies
As a child she tottered on her mother’s heels.
So high
Struggling to reach the sky
Now her fate she seals
With deals
Done over the phone.
Alone
With guys
Her trade she plies.
Empty thighs
Open
And saccharin words are spoken.
But can one deceive
Those who yearn to believe?
She has his measure.
A man of pleasure.
Not bad
Just a sad
Boy
In search of a new toy.
He has No desire to destroy
But seeks for joy,
Angling with his hook of gold
For fish it is impossible to hold.
—
Gazing back
Down childhood’s track
She perceives a lack
Of love.
The light above
Is not red.
No drugs fill her head
Yet the dead
Thud
Of empty love,
Of skin against bone
Screams “Alone.
You are young.
Your chance you flung
Away
Without a care
To lie with your clothes
Heaven knows
Where.
‘Twas in work not play,
You lost yourself there”.
On Friday evening, I popped into my favourite local, the Railway Bell for a pint or two. While there I fell into conversation with an acquaintance who mentioned my book, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”, (http://moyhill.com/lost/). I enquired whether he would like to see the book (I had a copy in my rucksack) and was told one was on order from his local bookshop. While I was delighted to learn that I had another customer for my work, I had to suppress a smile as the publisher holds no stock. Consequently my acquaintence’s order will find it’s way to Moyhill who will, in turn pass it on to me for fulfilment. I will then send a copy of “Lost” to the bookstore. How much simpler things would have been had my drinking companion gone direct to the horse himself!
The above does demonstrate that my book is showing up on all the correct systems, hence the bookstore being able to order it. I am, however still left feeling that I’ve been through rather a surreal experience!
Kevin
K Morris - Poet 