Sitting at my desk
Thinking of the final rest.
No need to weep
When I take my final sleep.
I will not know
When I go
To the place where snow
Does not fall
And even the raven’s call
Can not penetrate
For beyond the eternal gate
There is neither love nor hate.
What
Lies
Beneath
The
Pure
White
Sheet?
Walking the old familiar track.
There is no turning back.
I lack
The will
To drill
Down and discover
What lies under cover.
It is not buried deep
For when I sleep
Memories creep
Out
And demons shout
In my ear.
It is always near
The old familiar fear.
mocking laughter
echoing down the years.
Must the writer forever analyse?
What is that look in her eye?
I wonder whether
They will stay together?
No hurry
Over their curry.
They flirt.
Will he get desert?
Sometimes I feel
Like a Catherine wheel,
My words as sparks,
Lighting the dark.
But who in December
remembers
The fifth of November?
—
In the United Kingdom, Bonfire or Guy Fawkes Night takes place on 5 November. The above was written on 9 December 2015.
It is to warm for December.
I remember
other years
When tears
Would freeze
And an icey breze
froze
the stinging nose.
No need for winter clothes.
The weather grows
Strange.
Something is deranged.
All, all is changed.
Someone went under a train today.
We commuters continued on our way.
There is nothing one can say.
Another person went under a train today.
—
As I walked through Embankment tube station this morning, the announcer apologised for the slight delays caused by a person having gone under a train. This is, sadly a regular occurance in London. One thinks briefly of the poor individual (and their family and friends) then, as one must, continue on one’s way. Most such instances are suicides (or attempted suicides), while a few are accidents.
Desires
Carried by wires.
She burns
And turns
To one
who enters in.
Will cables that coil
Contain passions that boil?
Will dials
defile
Smials
As man plays
Out his days?
Will the machine control
The soul?
We duck and dive
trying to survive
let alone thrive
in this world of plastic
where truth is elastic
and love can be bought and sold
for cold hard gold.
Attachment is a fad
and we are oft times glad
when lovers go
for intimacy brings woe.
We hide in our bubble
with no one to cuddle
save for the pillow at night.
There is no delight
or perhaps somewhere
there are those who care.
Do you remember the lightning?
Nothing frightening.
Just a flash
And the crash
Of thunder.
I wonder
What happened to you?
There was no glue
To hold we two
Together.
Just birds of a feather
Sheltering from stormy weather.
K Morris - Poet 