Were we always to say what we mean,
Then the well oiled machine
Would falter
And things would alter,
For a single lapse
May lead to a collapse
Revealing the hard
Behind the façade.
Many a writer does hide
Inside
His art.
His secrets oft go to the grave,
Though the brave
Cry over art.
It is too hot.
Girls and boys
Sweat,
But have not
The energy for fleeting joys,
Let alone regret
I have just been reading of the Royals visit to Grenfell tower,
and the welcome they did receive.
I see the power
Of a non-political head of state, to represent the unity
Of the community
And grieve
That you do not perceive
The Monarchy as I do
But construe
Them as hangers-on
Who’s time is long gone.
Every week
I hear you speak
The same old guff.
I have had enough
But politeness makes me hold my tongue
For a word carelessly flung
Can cause lasting distress and bile
To often provokes a vile
Reply
Causing acquaintance to die
In a gutter of abuse.
I think you obtuse
But being wise
And somewhat to my own surprise
Hold my peace.
Often I hear
That one can take
A sow’s ear
And a silk purse make.
This appears to be the common view
So, perforce it must be true …!
Two lonely rivers met
And being single
Did their waters mingle.
They are lonely yet
I have known you for a long time:
Women,, and wine, and rhyme.
The prospect is most fine:
With women, and rhyme, and wine.
The hill does gently decline:
With women,, and rhyme, and wine.
Yet the world is surely divine:
With women, and rhyme, and wine.
—
Note: I was influenced, I believe, when composing the above poem, by Ernest Christopher Dowson’s “The Poet’s Road” which runs thus:
“Wine and woman and song,
Three things garnish our way:
Yet is day over long.
Lest we do our youth wrong,
Gather them while we may:
Wine and woman and song.
Three things render us strong,
Vine leaves, kisses and bay;
Yet is day over long.
Unto us they belong,
Us the bitter and gay,
Wine and woman and song.
We, as we pass along,
Are sad that they will not stay;
Yet is day over long.
Fruits and flowers among,
What is better than they:
Wine and woman and song?”
To live and die
As a fly,
Knowing only this wood, this sky.
Yet here am I
Once she had ideals.
Now her fate she seals
In late night deals
And slip-off heels
There was a young author named Hurn
Who lived in a place called Pitcairn.
He wrote about a girl he knew,
Which one aught not to do!
So they drummed him out of Pitcairn!
There was a young Man called Mcqueen
Who was part of a certain scene.
He wrote a book,
At which I refuse to look,
But I hear its quite obscene …!
K Morris - Poet 