The fruit grows within easy reach.
How simple to take a peach
Or plum.
How delightfully does temptation come.
The juice turns to gall.
Better to let the fruit fall
or be gathered by other hands.
But desire commands
us to pick
and sip.
The devil’s tune seems sweet
and once our feet
begin to dance
We have no chance
To stop
but must waltz until we drop.
Silk and lace.
Those legs.
Her face.
She leaves
not a hair out of place.
Many thanks to Sacha Black for featuring me on her website (http://sachablack.co.uk/2015/11/06/interview-with-author-kevin-norris/#more-3193). In my interview I refer to being in the process of revising “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose”. The revised edition is now available in ebook and print format.
Kevin
The unmonitored video tape
reveals what we can not escape.
The honeyed words we say
in the light of day
are swept away
at night
when our conscience doth delight
in stripping bare all pretence.
The fence
is down and nightmare
doth stare
Us full in the face.
The knowledge of disgrace
Causes the mind to race
In fear
As the truth stands near.
Even the fool
Knows the cassette will, one day, unspool
And lie tangled
Mmangled
Beyond repair
And the dark angel will be there.
My thoughts lost on the damp air
Going who knows where.
The sodden grass
I pass
Where children play
but not today.
No ball
or bird call.
Only the rain’s incessant fall.
Walking through the leaves
I perceive
the familiar churchyard.
It is writ large
on these weathered stones
“man is skin and bones.
All we are turns to dust.
Here men are beyond lust.
They sleep fast
And do not ask
Who does pass
By
With a doleful sigh”.
No more are men buried here.
The place is near
to my home.
I am but skin and bone.
I feel the carpet warm as I write.
The morning light
Will soon dispel the remains of night
For a time at least
then eternal peace.
(All Saints Church is close to my home. The graveyard is long since disused although the existing graves are maintained. http://www.allsaintsuppernorwood.co.uk/).
I am the one you pass without a second glance.
I am the one who can dance
my feet
moving to a forbidden beat.
I am the work that keeps him late
While at home you wait.
I am the scent that lingers
On fingers.
I am a smile
A guilty denial.
I am the bump that grows
Fingers and toes.
I am new life.
You are his wife.
She stands,
corkscrew in hand.
The wine beckons.
Seconds,
Crawl past,
Until, at last,
With a twist
Of her wrist,
the cork slowly rises.
There are no surprises.
Fate knocks
as the cork pops.
Sun dappled lawns.
The vicar yawns
As Colonel Trickett
Defends his wicket.
The sound of bat on ball
mingles with a blackbird’s call
that floats
amidst ancient oaks
and the Colonel’s son takes Lucy’s hand
as the sun sets on Angleland.
Were high heels for they make you tall
But be careful lest you fall.
Situations are slippery as eels.
The ground feels
firm
but the worm
may turn
and swallow
the hollow
you.
Were high heels for you are pretty
And the citty
Is full of witty
Men
Who employ their pen
To record every slip
And trip.
Watch the pavement as you walk
For people talk
And reputations are brittle as bones
That break on stones …
K Morris - Poet 