In forests green
I have seen
The nymphs play.
Cometh May
They will around the pole
Dance.
By chance
Some kindred soul
Seeing a special one twirl
Will take a girl
Into his arms
For who can resist the charms
Of beauty fleeting
As the budding rose
Pressed to a young maiden’s nose.
There will be time enough for weeping
When the dance is over
And we are pushing up the clover
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.
We are supposed to strive,
And arrive
At a goal.
The whole
Point of education
Is to generate wealth for the nation.
One must be constructive
And do something productive.
Making wigits
And counting digits
Keeps the wheels of commerce turning.
Gradgrind says we must always be learning
But I am discerning
He means
As a machine
That thinks not but performs.
He scorns
Arts for they have no goal
Other than the enrichment of the soul.
Bentham is dead
Yet his head
Calculates still,
While the poet on the hill
Takes delight
In the dark and starry night.
—
https://www.ucl.ac.uk/museums/jeremy-bentham/about/bentham-head
With huge thanks to David Cronin of Moyhill, I am pleased to be able to post an edited version of my interview on Croydon Radio. The previous version (posted here) ran to some 2 hours, of which my contribution is approximately 30 minutes. The edited version (which contains only my interview) can be found at:
(http://moyhill.com/lost/assets/km-interview-croydon-radio-2016-04-09-16-00-53-edited-64k.mp3).
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 have updated my ‘About’ page to include a link to my interview on Croydon Radio. In addition, I have added a link to the print edition of ‘Lost in the labyrinth of my mind’.
To visit my ‘About’ page, please click: https://newauthoronline.com/about/
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
K Morris - Poet 