The better man hides inside.
Pride
As a snake
Does wake
And we forsake
Kindness, that like a river should flow
And lose ourselves in hate and woe.
We know what is right
And oft in the depths of night
Look into our soul.
We ssee the whole
Thing crystal clear.
All our fears
And empty tears.
Let the serpent go
For we reap what we sew.
An open heart
Can not by the devil’s art
Be made black
Only a lack
Of will
Can our soul kill
A February wind gusts down Whitehall.
The thin flag flaps but does not fall.
I hear water lapping
And see a flag flapping
Over receeding shores
And rugged moors.
Pale
Ships sail.
Gulls wail.
Masts crack.
There is no turning back.
An old man looks out
Upon the rout.
The shouting dies.
His eyes
Fixed upon the flag, which still flies
Red, white, and blue, against the darkening skies.
The soothing rain
Washes away pain.
My thought’s train
Quieted by the rain.
The wind blows
And my heart goes
High
Untoo the sky.
Would that I could travel with the breeze
And soar amongst the trees.
But I am to the ground tied
And must dwell amongst tears and sighs.
The fallen leaves are dead
Yet Overhead
Birds sing
Presaging spring.
Heels traverse the corridor.
So many have been here before.
Just another shadow falls
On painted walls.
A door must open
And a word be spoken
To the figure from the gloom
Who vanishes soon.
Things remain
The same.
The empty corridor
And Sadness reigning evermore.
The below poem was written by Jayne King. I hope to publish more of Jayne’s work in the future.
—
The birds have started to tweet,
Night is turning to day.
Yet I haven’t had a wink of sleep
The Land of Nod seems far away.
Slowly colours are emerging
From the growing light of day
Lengthy shadows, too, have formed
Why is Nod so far away?
Dawn has broken,
Unnatural sleep comes my way.
Have I become undead?
Awake at night and sleeping during the day.
(Copyright Jayne King).
The sea roars
Flooding barren shores
Then slowly withdraws
Leaving the sand to dry
And gull’s to cry
In the darkening sky
Birds sing
Yet spring
Is far away.
The day
Is cold.
I think of arms that enfold
And do not hold.
The gold
Coin doth spin
And what some call sin
Enters in.
I think of a girl’s scent
Of those who do, and then repent.
I dwell on heaven
O how close ‘tis to hell!
And think it well
To leave the stone
Alone.
Why this desire
To know the secret fire
That in man does burn
And how he doth turn
Away
From the light of day.
He will go his way
Whate’r the moralists say.
The retro
Must go.
A version of the past
Is sold off fast.
Perhaps I will take a look.
Perchance happen upon an old book.
I meant to visit before
But now the door
Will soon close
On retro clothes.
People are interested in the old ways.
The days
When all was right, or seemed so.
The stock must go
For a song.
Before long
Another business will take the shop’s place.
The bland corporate face
Will occupy another space.
We race
Knowing not where we are going
Or what we may be sewing.
Without a feel for the past
The future beccons, bleak and vast.
She stood for hours
Selling her flowers
By Grim towers.
Their scent
Was long since spent.
Their bloom
Was gone to soon.
But still some bought.
Sometimes she thought
Of the bee that does take
And then forsake
The budding rose
Then goes
On to devour
Another flower.
Hour after hour
She saw the power
Of beautiful flowers.
The bees their sweet nectar took
And she was struck
By how the rose does decay
And the bee will have his way.
The snow came yesterday.
Ere long it went away.
The landscape it whitened overnight.
O such passing delight!
K Morris - Poet 