Sunlight and shade
A girl made
With tresses brown
As Autumn’s gown.
I lay me down
Upon the forest’s ground
And lost myself there.
But oh despair
For when I awoke
And her name spoke
She was no longer there.
I am a fool
To think my mistress cruel.
Her beauty is beyond art
But lose not your heart
To her
For there is no heart to lose
In return
And as surely as the earth does turn
There is no love to return.
Alert: Risque humour below:
Everyone has their thing
Or most people do,
Whether it be a high-heel shoe
Or string,
Most people have their thing.
Alert!
The prim secretary, in her conservative skirt
And the sober executive, in his crisp white shirt,
All have their kink,
The chains that clink,
The Fluffy handcuff
And other such stuff.
Yes I think
That everyone has their kink.
But it simply won’t do
To dwell on the stiletto shoe
For I am a bore
And my thoughts are pure.
I enjoyed Laura Routh’s poem “The Leaves Are Falling Down”, https://owlinthewood.com/blog/2018/5/19/first-poem-the-leaves-are-falling-down. For me, the poem isn’t merely about the forest ageing and the coming of Autumn, it also speaks of the harmful effect humans often have on the natural world.
The All Party Parliamentary Group on Prostitution has recommended that paying for sex be criminalised (they argue that it is paying customers, mainly men, who are driving human trafficking and express concern regarding so-called “pop-up brothels”, where a property is rented for a short period then abandoned by the traffickers allowing them to stay one step ahead of the law.
This piece, by the Press association, https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/may/21/sexual-exploitation-uk-women-pop-up-brothels-report) reminds me of my poem “Circles” in which I ponder upon this highly contentious subject, https://newauthoronline.com/2016/07/15/circles/.
I go out
Before the multitude is about
And walk in the wood
Where the air is good
And there are no words
Save for the birds
Who’s song, though not for man
Can set him free
Of desire. So is it for me
As I simply be
Amongst bird and tree.
Then the din
Sets in.
Not of human shout,
Although there are houses here about
That skirt the wood. I here the cry
Of the young in search of homes to call their own.
It is contended that we must sacrifice some green spaces
To accommodate the young’s need for places
To live. But if the Green Belt is no longer sacrosanct
What scant
Greenery will stay
When the planners have had their way?
I doubt this wood will go
Though other spots of green
Now seen
Will turn black
Under tarmac
And some will notice the lack
When the rats race
Where there was once a green place.
Perhaps I am being unfair
For Darren and Claire
And there 2.5 kids need somewhere
To live.
But will their children give
Thanks to mum and dad when there
Is less green
To be seen
Than was previously the case
And nature’s face
Is converted into neat little garden rows.
Who knows?
Not I
But for now I have tree and sky.
There once was a poet called Prout
Who wrote a poem about a sprout.
His verse was so bad
That it drove people mad
And his wife, she threw him out!
When old acquaintances come back
Often we lack
The will to refuse.
Many a man has, in booze
Rekindled a former desire.
The fire
Burns, and he is lost
In the pleasure of pain.
He will splash
His cash
In a manner most rash
And go down the primrose path
With a bittersweet laugh.
He deletes her number
But she
Retains his.
Tis
Always the same
Though man may curse
He will continue to traverse
The well worn road of pleasure and pain.
In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
Who
When
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?
Who
On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.
Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Cry.
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.
You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.
Lost in the familiar wood.
I have not been good.
Flowers catch at me.
Breaking free
I laugh
As I have travelled this path
Before, and spent hours
Delighting in flowers,
But no more?
Flirts in skirts.
All is quiet
At night.
Save for the riot
Of dreams and nightmares.
He who dares
May Gain the prize
Of a girl’s come-on eyes.
But if she say “no”
Will he go
Down the path
Of nice guy or psychopath?
Flirtation
Is not an invitation
To remove a girl’s short dress
Unless
She explicitly says “yes”.
K Morris - Poet 