The wind howls
as the environment scowls
on ersatz man
who can
only cower
At nature’s power.
His tower
shiny and new
may see him through
But the old gods wait
And ‘tis getting late.
Thor raises his hammer
Drowning out the yammer
Of man who plays on the Titanic’s dek
an albatross about his neck.
Sometimes words die on lips
And cruelty strips
Away
The light of day.
Only the rain
And pain
remain.
The wall seemed so high.
Acorns fell as from the sky.
There they would lie
To be collected by you and I.
The acorn’s hard shell.
I remember it well.
The smell of the wood
Natural and good.
Now the wall is to high
And on the other side you lie.
Come visit the stage.
‘Tis all the rage
to see ecstasy without feeling.
Your senses will be reeling
as the lights on the ceiling
reveal her kneeling.
The club will be dark.
She will play her part
to perfection.
You need not fear rejection
for she will never tire.
and your desire
Is her pleasure.
Take your leisure
and find romance.
Come see the robot dance
I have dreamed poetry’s sound.
Something quite profound.
But when I awake
the muse does me forsake.
In the labyrinth of my brain
no doubt the words remain
But I have mislaid the golden thread
that ran through my sleeping head.
Sometimes I get them down
while the world sleeps all around.
But oft they float away
lost in the light of day.
Being blind
I sometimes find
myself wondering what women look like.
With little sight
it is impossible to tell
so why do I on this subject dwell?
I do perceive
that a voice may deceive.
Girlish tones
Can belong to old crones.
A scent draws me in
thoughts of skin
and sin.
“Would you like to touch my face?”
“This is not the place
my dear.
People are near.
Besides we have only just met.
I don’t even know your name yet”!
She lingers.
Thinking of sensitive fingers
Loss of sight
does not equal no delight …
Closing my curtain
I shut out the night
And the fireworks
Celebrating something
but precisely what
I am uncertain.
While beyond my drapes
The dark
patiently waits …
I have wandered long
battling strong
waves
that have dragged comrades to their graves.
Now on this island I could stay
for lotus takes the pain away.
Those who eat of the flower
lose many an hour
in sweet dream.
Penelope is far.
The star
shines above.
I see love
and peace.
My journeying could cease
here.
Yet I fear
the gods
who rob
men of peace.
No, my wanderings may not cease.
I must to my deck.
The island now a mere speck
on the skyline.
I must trust to the divine
who rule
we mortal fools.
I have long been intrigued by John Keat’s poem “La Belle Dame sans Merci” (“The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy”).
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing”.
Is man’s destiny to slowly fade away?
to be lost in perpetual play?
The gosimer thin thread
in his head
breaks
and he takes
a step over the abyss
to wallow in bliss
where machines dream
and Alice is not who she seems.
The sun rises.
There are prizes
For the movers and shakers.
To be caught in a movie maker’s
dream,
a scene
from which there can be no escape.
As we roll with the never ending tape.
(The above was prompted by an article in yesterday’s Guardian, http://www.theguardian.com/business/2015/nov/07/artificial-intelligence-homo-sapiens-split-handful-gods).
K Morris - Poet 