Wires going into your head.
Are you dead
Or on life support?
Perhaps I aught
Not to intrude,
For it is rude
To stare.
But there,
To my surprise,
In front of my eyes
Is an actual cyborg,
Who does on technology gorge.
Pale ghosts.
Stale scent.
Notches in bedposts.
Copybook blotches.
Too many to remember.
May to December
It didn’t happen because
She was
A prude.
“I wasn’t rude”
he thinks
As he drinks
Bitter beer alone,
His hand itching for the telephone.
A British schoolgirl is the first non-Japanesewinner of a Japanese haiku competition. Gracie Starkey, who was 13 at the time when she composed the poem, visited Japan to receive the prestigious prize.
To read this beautiful haiku, and more about Gracie, please visit HERE,
They opened him up and found
… Nothing profound.
Some say it is in his poetry,
Others disagree.
Whatever the case may be
He is now, forever, free
How long before they impale
Themselves on email
Or text?
How vexed
They would be
To hang from their own tree.
The goal stands undefended.
The keeper pretended
To watch, but slept.
Inevitably someone wept
As into the open goal, the ball crept
First speaker: “Is it romantic?”
Second speaker: “no,
Although,
Some hold it to be so.
It is a frantic dance
Where romance
Has little chance”.
First Speaker: “Are you friends
Of a kind?”
Second speaker: “I find
That there are schemes,
Means
To ends.
It all depends
On what you mean by friends …”.
First speaker: “Is there ever respect?”
Second speaker: “I can not reject
The idea that there is sometimes respect,
But some will never accept
That this is often the case
So after imagined nightmares chase”.
First speaker: “Is it cold?”
Second speaker: “Warm arms enfold
But gold
Is by it’s nature cold”.
There was a young lady named May
Who one day went astray.
She met a gnome,
Who took her home.
What more can I say …
If everyone were locked up for their fantasies
The prisons would be full
And the dull
Fool
Would rule
Over a land
Where hypocrisy held command
The scents of Autumn are all around.
Soon acorns and conkers will strew the ground.
Summer’s outstretched hand
Still lingers,
Her loosening fingers
Hold
Leaves of gold.
K Morris - Poet 