The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop.
The hoary
old Tory
finds glory
in the upper house.
his socialist spouse
drinks champagne
and cudgels her brains
about the renationalisation of trains.
Their Communist girl
Her head in an idealistic whirl
Buys expensive clothes
For she knows
That money on ancient trees grows.
And so the world goes!
Rocks and bar stools.
Men are fools!
She combs her hair
Oh man beware!
Cupid’s arrow is shot
And duty forgot.
She is giving him the eye.
The gods sigh.
Her voice so sweet.
Those dainty feet.
Passion into his heart creeps.
“Come play with me in the ocean deep.
In my warm embrace you may sleep
Locked in the arms of love
As Venus smiles above”,
She says
Her song musical as the waves.
But all singing ends
As to the depths they descend.
“Let us pile high the fire my dear.
Come you near
and warm the cockles of your heart.
Let us practice love’s art.
Draw closer and sit upon my knee.
Let us make free
like the amorous swan
for time rolls on
and desire, ‘tis soon gone.
“Sir
My mother warned me to beware
Of poets who pretty verses spin
Lest they lead me into sin.
Good night to you noble sir
I must be off and wash my hair”.
Taken in lust
His dust
In equality
Floats with the quality.
The abhorred
Whore
Dances with the bishop
Who wisheth
It were not so.
All men must go
To that place
Where the race
ends
And night descends.
Light fades.
Shades
In forgotten graves
stir.
Black cats purr.
Despair
On a broomstick travels.
Joy unravels
As hope dies
And the vampire
Glides
Through pitch black skies.
To float on a cloud
As angels sing loud
Hymns
about the redemption of sins
Would, I think
Drive me to drink.
The devil would wink
And invite me to sink
To his abode below.
Should I choose to go
There would be good cheer.
bitter beer
and a warm fire, forever near
A girl well spoken.
The doors that could open
close
on this delicate rose.
The primrose path to hell is sweet
But the way back will defeat
Those who walk on dainty feet.
Don’t judge a book by it’s cover
Or you may discover
Something other
Than you bargained for.
Janus stands atop the door
while the raven does khaw.
Waking from a strange dream
I hear the fatal bellman toll.
‘Tis Macbeth’s owl
Signifying death.
A warm bed
On a dark October morn.
My fancy
And the cold note of an owl hunting.
Hey diddle diddle.
The cat’s on the fiddle.
The cow kidnapped the moon.
The policeman laughed at the overtime
And the butler ran away with the spoon.
K Morris - Poet 