When the lights burn
Evil spirits turn
Away
Or so they
Say.
But what of the inner dark
Where there exists no spark
Of healing light
To fright
The night
Away?
No light of day
Can get inside
The heart
Where the dark
Does hide.
And who can trace
Behind the bright
Face
The night?
(Written in response to https://sarainlalaland.com/2018/04/11/i-challenge-you/).
There was a young man called James
Who went by numerous names.
When he met a girl named Kim
His name was Jim
Or maybe it was Aimes …
There was a young lady called Samantha
Who owned a large pet panther.
It fed on fish
And a dainty dish
That went by the name of Samantha
I wonder
Who makes the thunder.
Is it Thor
Who makes that roar?
The scientist will say
In a most prosaic way
That there is no deity on high
Merely electricity and the endless sky.
I sigh
For the forgotten days of belief.
This life is brief
And scientists say that there is no wonder
In yonder lightning flash
And the crash of thunder,
Yet still I wonder …
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/wonder/).
Inchoate desire.
A fire
Fanned by a girl’s sweet scent.
No need to repent
As yet.
Come tomorrow
There will be sorrow
And regret.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/inchoate/).
I remember well
The hut.
The rain fell
But
I swear
That I was content there.
Alone I was
Because
I wished it to be so.
I know
The rain and sky
For it is I.
A strange boy was I.
My heart
Given to rain and sky,
Standing aloof from the loud
Crowd
In my hut.
But
Half wishing to be part
Of those who were children as I
Yet knew not of rain and sky.
I see
The key
To my clock
On the bedside table,
As we …
I am unable
To block
The advance
Of time,
Although I can retrace
In rhyme
Many a dance
And half-remembered face.
The clock’s hands are still
Though mine move
And will,
Until
My inner clock
Receives a final shock
Thrusting
Into nothing.
Trusting
In nothing.
A way of coping,
Perchance hoping,
For Something
Of nothing.
What does it profit a man if he gain a good education
To benefit the nation,
In a subject he comes to loathe?
The wild rose
Goes
Unsmelt
But he dwelt
Amongst those
Who wore fine clothes.
What good does it profit a man if he considers wealth
A supreme good in and of itself?
His health
He loses,
Boozes
Away
To help him cope with his stressful day.
He may pay
For a yacht
But he has got
A hole
Where his soul
Should be.
I can not agree
With those who would level down society
For variety
Is good
And we are not all of the same wood.
Yet to glorify economics at the expense of all else
Leads to an obsession with the self
And rich young things who sit, in groups, alone
Playing with their telephone
There was a young man called Coarse
Who rode a moral high horse.
I did hear tell
How one day he fell.
The people laughed of course.
K Morris - Poet 