In my youth
To tell truth
Every girl appeared to me
To be
A spark to ignite.
My flame burned bright
And I would take delight
In puppy dreams.
Now it seems
That I have too much
As I at nought but phantoms clutch.
I have delighted
In desire
Unrequited
And received a kind of satisfaction
Through what the vulgar term “action”.
Their fire
Is often cold, although
A few I know
Make a show
Of pretending it is not so.
Walking through the churchyard
I heard
you talking.
Your word
Was gentle then,
A breeze
Whispering amongst the leaves,
But when
You In anger blow
The wise know
That your breath
Augurs death,
For we reap what we sow.
There was an elderly man named Locke
Who owned a grandfather clock.
Dead on nine
He would dine
To the chimes of that grandfather clock
Give me a wealthy patron to support my rhyme
That I may please
And gently tease.
But a thought most sad
Drives me mad
For I was born in the modern time!
Shal I compose jingles
To sell pringles?
Or advertise singles
Clubs
Where couples in bath tubs …
No, late at night
I shall continue to write
In rhyme
Until come my time …
There was a young man named Moor
Who’s poetry was most obscure.
Much to his surprise
Readers did criticise
So he composed a whole lot more!
Two is company but three
Is a crowd you see.
Yet for some three is the magic number.
Fear of judgement may encumber
The desire to fish
But still waters run deep
And the wish
To sleep
May overtake
And secret fires wake
There was a young poet named Zeff
Who wrote a poem about death.
The Grim Reaper heaved a great sigh
And said “I have long pondered on why
You poets are so obsessed with death”.
She was a party girl
Her head in a whirl
Of boys
And expensive toys.
She offered
“No strings fun”
In exchange for money proffered
By those who would
(if they only could)
outrun
The solemn tick tock
Of the ever present clock.
She was gone one day,
Who can say
Where?
Few care
To know.
The man of the world shrugs.
“Drugs.
Best not go
There.
She had naturally blonde hair
I think.
Will you take another drink?”
The chimes
Are out of tune with the times.
Which way will the pendulum swing?
And what will the future bring?
The tick tock
Of a balanced clock
Is long since gone
But the mechanism grinds on.
The clock may be repaired
And it’s owners spared
The eratic pendulum’s swing
That no balance does bring.
A steady chime
To tell the time
And the singing of a blackbird
Must once more be heard.
Below are 2 poems which are taken from my collection of poetry and prose, “Dalliance”, which was published in 2014. The first poem is entitled “Fire” and the second “Midnight”.
—
“I have felt the fire’s power;
It kindles brightly and sinks within the hour.
I have watched the embers dying fast;
Looked into the future and gazed into the past.
I have raked the ashes cold, felt the bleakness in my soul”.
—
“Midnight, black as pitch.
No scheming demon, ghost, nor witch.
Only the darkness, which in the human heart resides, manifests itself in cruelty and pride”.
—
K Morris - Poet 