My old clock I wind
And much philosophy therein find.
I can bring
The pendulum’s swing
To a stop With my hand,
Yet I can not command
Time to default
On his duty and halt
The passing of the years.
He has no ears
For our laughter and tears
And his sickle will swing on
Long after we are gone.
“Tell me wolf, why do you howl
At the rising moon?
Is it that our little life is over oh too soon?”
“No, ‘tis the owl
Most foul.
He stole my favourite towel!”,
He replied with a growl …! …
It is a will-o’-the-wisp, followed by the frightened or blind,
Who themselves bind
To the delusion, that the mist does not forever close
Over mouth and nose.
There are few posies for the departed,
Just an idea started
In the mind
Of those who would salvation find
In a deep freeze,
Designed to please
The ego
Of people who fear to go
Down that dark track
From whence none come back
As a mannequin in a shop window, at which people stare,
She stands in the glare
Of the bedroom light.
Once, such things did excite.
Now all is null
Or on occasions, he
Takes a dull,
Almost professional interest in yet another she.
Gazing at the girl, in her birthday suit
He thinks on the route
Cause of his obsession with mannequins.
Loneliness or sins?
Where begins
A man’s cursed traverse
Of the path to the ever lasting bonfire
Where desire
Ends in mechanical sport
With a mannequin bought
Out of boredom.
He knows there is no true joy in hoardom
For him or her.
Still, in despair
He takes a half-hearted pleasure there.
Shall we speak as though we will go on forever?
I saw a feather
Borne on a summer’s breeze.
It did please
Me
To see
So carefree
A thing
Dance on the balmy air.
The breeze became a gale,
Then came the hail.
The feather
Was by the tempest tossed,
And forever
Lost
In that passing storm.
A man, alone, in a room, listening to a distant bird.
Not a word
Of his overheard.
The neighbours are friendly enough, not prying
Or spying.
Liberty’s flower
Blooms an hour
But he has heard tell
It may be dying.
There was a young man called Jack
Whose view of the world was black.
When they asked him “why?”
He said, with a sigh,
“because I always take the flak …!”
There was a young lady called Gale
Who wrote to her lover in braille.
He said with a look most perplexed,
“Really, I’m vext,
For my fingers,can not read braille …!”
The gods have left Mount
Olympus. Zeus grits his teeth
At the lack of belief,
While Venus haggles over a discount
On second hand clothes.
And Heaven only knows
Where the world goes.
The click clack of stilettos.
Girls from ghettos
Feet are lost
In carpets they could never afford,
While a discreet board
Shows the cost
Of most things.
The lift bell pings.
What goes up must go down.
The receptionist, eyes lost in her book
Gives a slight frown.
Why bother to look?
For of course
A nod is as good as a wink
To a blind horse.
K Morris - Poet 