I must confess
That many a girl in a short dress
Has set my pulse racing.
I am forever chasing
The elusive swan,
Who is here then gone
Into the night sky.
I
Am a dry
Watering hole temporarily wet
By girls I forget,
‘Ere I move on
To another swan.
I maintain
That the card
Hit the hard
Bottom of the pillar box.
Yet I retain,
Here in my hand
That self-same card,
With crumpled envelope
I can not seal.
Nymphs never die.
They fade
Into woodland glade,
While I
Wait in fear
For nymphs to reappear.
I beg you, stay a while
For I am without guile
And ‘tis no crime
To hide oneself in rhyme
Walking a tightrope,
The abyss
Of bliss
Below.
Should I let go
People would recall
That I had a spectacular fall …
To keep hold
Is, I am told
The right thing to do.
That may well be true
But oh
How I long to go
Into the abyss
Of bliss
Tis a strange thing
To see winter dance with spring.
The winter wind does freeze
Spring’s heart,
Yet she will play her part
And with her bloom
Tease
And please,
Creating her own tomb.
Incongruous you stood,
A sofa in my local wood.
You belong in a living room
But as some poisonous mushroom
You despoil the grace
Of nature’s face.
No point to shout
About a litter lout,
For if you did hear
I fear
That you would not listen.
The glisten
of morning dew
Means nothing to you,
Who would rather view TV,
Than stare at bird or tree.
Doubtless you own a state-of-the-art television
(And a new settee).
Yet you lack the vision
To see
Beyond the dancing screen
To yonder wood,
Where the air is good
And fox and squirrel are oft times seen.
There was a young lady named Leigh
Who said, “is it really me?”.
But the glass it broke,
As the words she spoke,
So Leigh was unable to see!
—
There was a young man named Shane
Who caught the wrong train.
A guard named Pride
Said “enjoy the ride,
And my daughter’s name it is Jane!”
—
There was a young man named Shane
Who boarded the wrong train.
A guard called Pride
Said “enjoy the ride
As this is an express train!”
I observed an elderly puppet master, with a puppet on a string,
And my heart was sore for such a young and delicate thing.
The puppet did dance at his command
And he gripped her hand
Exceeding tight.
But out of sight
Of her master, I fancied that I saw the puppet wink
And I did think
On age and youth,
And appearance and truth
I long for hardback books
And sequestered nooks
In traditional pubs with open fires.
My desires
Are simple and yet
I get
Paperbacks that fall apart
And drinking dens that lack a heart.
K Morris - Poet 