In the wood’s dark
Heart the breeze
Whispers in the trees
Words that I can not comprehend.
May god send
Me peace
And this breeze
Never cease.
In The Wood’s Dark Heart
Leave a reply
Tag Archives: poetry
There is a quiet place
The horrific terrorist attack, which took place in London on the evening of 4 June, brought to mind my poem “There is a quiet place out of reach”. Those who carried out this atrocity have “empty souls”, indeed some may doubt whether they possess any soul whatever. Had it not been for the swift action of the police, in shooting dead the terrorists, this terrible incident could have been even worse. Fanaticism and barbarism must be withstood and defeated.
Kevin
“There is a quiet place out of reach
To those who hatred preach.
They prate,
And understand too late,
Or perhaps not at all,
That pride comes before a fall.
Words meaningful as a harlot’s compliment fall
On the ear
Of men who hear what they want to hear.
The truth clear
Is, I fear,
Too often lost in sound and beer.
The fanatic’s words drear
Will fill the empty soul
Of those whose goal
Is the destruction of the whole
Liberal project;
To which they object
Without knowing why.
Then, pointlessly, die”.
Who is worse, the tempter or the sinner?
Who is worse? The tempter or the sinner?
The expensive dinner
Bought by a man, for a girl young enough to be his daughter.
Common sense flung
Aside,
Along with his pride.
As a lamb to the slaughter
He traverses a path
That would make a cat laugh.
And what of the girl, who does strive
To keep alive?
(Though in the west,
One must confess
That it is more likely to be her “need”
For a new dress
That does her greed
Drive).
The tomb is ever near.
Perhaps it is this thought most drear
That leads a man, in later life,
To take to mistress or wife
A girl who will still
The fear that he is growing old
Though the charms
Of youthful arms, bought with gold
Can not a man save
from the cold grave.
There Was A Young Man Called More
There was a young man called more
Who’s head was extremely sore.
He denied that it was drink
But the devil did wink
At the empties on the floor!
(“empties” means empty bottles. In this case of the alcoholic kind).
Paste
When conversation
Lags and you are full
Of dull
Anticipation.
When you have no connection
Save for a shared perception
Of mutual need
Or greed.
Then, When the lights go out
the shout
Of conscience is stifled,
And paste pearls rifled.
There Was A Young Man Called Hawking
There was a young man called Hawking
Who wished to go to Dawking.
He missed his train
And cried out in pain,
“I guess I should start walking!”
The Crocodile And The Young Maiden
An elderly crocodile
Lazing in the Nile
Did spy
A young maiden walking by.
Heaving a deep sigh
He said “my life here
In this river
Is so drear.
Why dost thou quiver
With fear?
Come you near
My dear.
We shall drink fine wine
And together dine”.
“Sir crocodile”
(The young maiden made reply, with a smile),
“It is getting late
And my mother does at home wait.
I fear
My dear
Sir that your plate
Shall empty be,
And as for me
I must home to tea,
And then to sleep
For young maidens are forlorn
And mothers weep
When the crocodile does yawn!”
The Chasm
As one grows older
There opens
A great chasm
Where enthusiasm
Sighs
And dies.
The chasm deep
Does so easily creep
Upon man,
Who must step back
(If he can)!
You asked how much?
You asked how much they could
Sell the wood
For (always assuming that they wish to sell)?
How easy it is to tell
That you are a man of pounds, shillings and pence,
With a sense
Of the price of art,
Though I fancy I hear an abacus click,
Where should beat your heart.
Inert
Who is the guilty one?
As the night went on
They both drank to excess.
Her dress
Was short
And her lipstick red, as the quilt On the bed,
when he brought her home
Alone.
Did she say “no or yes”?
A short dress
Is not an invitation
And a man’s anticipation
Is no excuse
For abuse.
Friends saw her flirt,
But she lay inert
On the quilt.
Who wilt
Judge their guilt?
K Morris - Poet 