The dress she bought
Was cheap and short.
The bus she caught.
The vehicle’s slow pace
Her burning face.
Barely coping.
For salvation hoping.
Groping
For a way out.
Inwardly she shouts.
People are about
Staring
She is almost beyond caring.
A suburban place
His flushed face.
A girl’s disgrace.
How very common place.
It is too soon
For the moon
To Rise.
The prize
Is for the taking.
The wolf is not yet waking
But come the gloom
his thirst he will be slaking.
It is almost dark at ten to four.
One year more
Has Almost gone.
Time with stealthy, unhurried tread, moves inexorably on.
—
13 December 2015.
What
Lies
Beneath
The
Pure
White
Sheet?
Walking the old familiar track.
There is no turning back.
I lack
The will
To drill
Down and discover
What lies under cover.
It is not buried deep
For when I sleep
Memories creep
Out
And demons shout
In my ear.
It is always near
The old familiar fear.
mocking laughter
echoing down the years.
Sometimes I feel
Like a Catherine wheel,
My words as sparks,
Lighting the dark.
But who in December
remembers
The fifth of November?
—
In the United Kingdom, Bonfire or Guy Fawkes Night takes place on 5 November. The above was written on 9 December 2015.
Do you remember the lightning?
Nothing frightening.
Just a flash
And the crash
Of thunder.
I wonder
What happened to you?
There was no glue
To hold we two
Together.
Just birds of a feather
Sheltering from stormy weather.
Standing at the station
reading the news of this nation
I became conscious of birds.
The words
I was reading
the thoughts they where feeding
seemed irrelevant.
This earth we are leant.
To much time is spent
lost in thought.
Additional hours can not be bought.
Oh listen to the birds
not the words
And learn to be
Free!
—
Being blind I have software on my mobile which enables the content of the screen to be spoken aloud (http://www.nuance.com/for-individuals/mobile-applications/talks-zooms/index.htm). Several days ago, I was reading the news at the station when I became aware of the birds singing. This prompted the above poem.
What is behind the façade
of those who live it large?
A girl on the make.
She takes
what a poor girl can.
He has no plan
apart from fun.
Together they run.
The sun
will always shine.
The band will always play
and the hay
will be forever sweet
as they dance with nimble feet
without a care
upon the air.
Old Father Time
clears his throat
as the band strikes a sour note.
—
(The reference to dancing with nimble feet upon the air is a reference to Oscar Wilde’s “The Balad of Reading Gaol”. “it is not sweet, with nimble feet, to dance upon the air”, which is, of course a reference to men dangling from the hangman’s rope).
‘Tis long since over.
We are know longer in clover.
In truth we never where.
I stare
At the screen.
The dream
Is gone
And life moves on.
K Morris - Poet 