Outside my window the birds twitter.
No bitter
Singing from those who live, yet know it not.
Their lot
Is a happy one,
For they are here then gone
Without foreknowledge that the sky will darken.
I will harken
To another song.
The long
Summer nights have arrived.
Why do I strive
For delights
Of a different kind,
When I find
In the birds
A truth surpassing words?
“I haven’t done this kind of thing before. I mean girls from my background do sometimes. I know they do, but it’s not kind of a normal thing to do is it? I know other girls do it but, really I’m not sure …”, she said, conscious of repeating herself.
The girl leant forward on the hotel barstool, her stillettos clicking against it as she did so.
“There is a first time for everything”, he said trying not to be overt in his admiration of those slim bare legs. “Why not give it a go, I’ve never had anyone regret it afterwards?”
“Oh I don’t know. What will my friends think of me? As I just told you, girls don’t usually do this kind of thing. Well girls like me that is”. She said staring nervously at the money on the bar.
“Go on, you know you want to”, the man replied giving what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Well … as you say my friends don’t need to know and I’m an open minded kind of girl, always up for trying new things. No one is watching are they?” she said glancing around the practically empty bar.
“No, no, no one is looking at us. Now is as good a time as any if you want to go through with it”, he said, glancing at her tiny, perfectly manicured fingers as they played nervously with the cash on the bar.
“OK, I’ve made a decision”, she said picking up the money and, glancing around for one final time handing it to her companion. “I like what I’ve seen so, yes I’ll buy your book. Will you sign it for me?”, she asked smiling shyly …
What is a woman that she holds such power
Over men?
She is a delicate flower
Who when
Scorned
Reveals thorns
That prick
The hapless man to the quick.
Woman is a pussycat with soft furr
Giving off a throaty purr.
But those who dare
To stir
Her
Wrath she will, with polished claws tear
Apart.
Beware for the heart
In love given
May with stillettos be ridden
Over.
“You drove her
To it by your behaviour”.
“I am your saviour”
She will say.
And, as sure as night follows day
You will be begging the girl to stay
For her claws are now sheaved
And who would believe
That one with a face so fair
Could rend and tear?
I was pleased to receive a letter in yesterday’s post advising me that my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/190559769X), has been added to the stock of Liverpool Library (https://liverpool.gov.uk/libraries/find-a-library/central-library/). As someone born and bred in that great city, I am delighted the people of Liverpool will be able to borrow “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind”.
Kevin
The search for the ultimate thrill
May chill
Or kill
The fickle heart.
Better to leave dark
Yearnings to art
Where they can do no harm,
Than down the primrose way start.
The charm
Of a thing
May oft times bring
A fleeting pleasure,
But come the set of sun
When our fun is done
The sting
We feel, then repent at leisure.
—
“Knock, knock! Never at quiet. What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire”.
Macbeth. Act 2, Scene 3.
funeral orations are no longer spoken.
Death’s scythe is broken.
His tread echoes not
And the graveyard plot
No longer inspires dread,
For death is dead!
The ageless sit.
Some wit
Cracks a joke, but there is no laughter
As after
Countless repetitions, humour palls.
Lothario calls
On his latest conquest.
Going through the motions, he longs for rest,
For all passion has long since gone,
And women’s faces have merged and become as one.
Yet he must cary on and on …
The celebrity’s aplomb
Is frayed.
No longer is attention payed
To her.
People can only stare
Or listen to the same old song
For so long.
Death is no more.
Even the bore
Tires of his own voice
But he has no choice
Other than to bore on
For the reaper has gone
And tedium eternal is in store
For the noble and the whore …
Welcome to a world of plastic
Where values elastic
Forever stretch
And men letch
After robot girls
Who are Ever ready for action.
Welcome to a world where satisfaction
Is guaranteed
And men are from bordom freed
By pills
Producing thrills
Of the most delightful kind.
Welcome to a world where the troubled mind
Is no more
For technology has in store
A virtual Paradise, In which dreams that shatter
No longer matter
For the programme can be infinitely changed.
Welcome to a world deranged!
I spent the earlier portion of this evening with my old friend Jeff. As ever, our conversation ranged far and wide. One topic on which we dwelt at length revolved around what constitutes reality and how, at any given point we can be certain that what we are experiencing is real. When one dies, my friend remarked, the world ceases to exist. While I don’t wish to get into whether my dear friend is, in fact right, I had in the back of my mind during the entirety of our conversation a poem by A. E. Housman and, on returning home I felt compelled to look it up. The lines run thus:
“Good creatures, do you love your lives
And have you ears for sense?
Here is a knife like other knives,
That cost me eighteen pence.
I need but stick it in my heart
And down will come the sky,
And earth’s foundations will depart
And all you folk will die”.
Kevin
I am a ripple lost upon the commotion
Of the great ocean,
As the sea around me roars.
The applause
Of gulls
Lulls
Me towards a kind of doze,
A daydream, wherin I smell the sweet rose
or poetry compose.
Caught in a trap Of my own device.
I hear the clapping hands
Of those I do not understand,
For the flock know not, that they have lost the land.
I could walk away
But I must stay
And try not to guffaw
At the empty roar
Of the fickle crowd.
I would rather be a cloud
That sails high
In a tranquil sky,
Or a fish,
The ocean’s
Erratic motion
Becoming a gentle swish
As I swim through
Waters deep
Flecked with blue.
I stand aloof
Searching for the truth.
Sometimes I feel
The real
Break through
As I blindly grope for what is true.
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.
K Morris - Poet 