Walking through the churchyard, I saw a shape.
There can be no escape
From the tomb.
The gloom
Is there
For those who care
To look beyond a sunny day.
continuing on my way
I passed that tree,
That did loom
Over tomb
And me.
As I grow older, my blood cools.
I shall leave fools
To kick against the rules
And retire
From desire,
For the fire
Has burned me to the core.
The flames roar
On occasions still entices.
But no, I will not haggle over prices!
Fools may pursue their own devices
While I drink
The water that cools
And think
On half-forgotten spices.
Once he would wait
In a state
Of needing,
To begin his feeding.
The plate
Would arrive.
Man felt alive
As he ate.
But no,
It was not always so,
For on occasions he would feed
And reluctant to retire,
His greed
Did more desire
Breed.
A wise man did once remark
On this truth stark,
“There is enough for every man’s need,
But not his greed”.
With indifference or hate
Man comes to regard the plate.
But what of the wish
Of the dish?
For do not plates
Have states
Of being?
A dish, itself seeing
Reflected back, in glass
Thinks “alas”,
And wishes for all this to pass.
After a while
The smile
Becomes set
In stone,
And yet
Were we not always alone
Waiting for the telephone to ring?
Or, indeed
Anything
To prevent
The descent
Into looking inside
(for woe betide
That we
Should be faced with me).
Or perhaps we call
For the writing on the wall
Says there is no choice,
But conscience’s voice
Whispers “No
You should not go
There”.
The devil in his lair
Replies “you may be gone tomorrow,
Drown your sorrow
And forget
Regret
In desire’s
Never ending fire”.
We awake
And take
A look inside,
For man can not hide
From himself
In the arms of elf.
“Never again
Will we have such pain”
We say
(and perhaps believe
As ‘tis easy oneself to deceive),
But tomorrow is another day
And the primrose way
Leads gently down to hell
Where dammed souls dwell.
Of an evening late
Oft times I would wait
For a click clack
To relieve my lack.
In the street below
Feet would come and go.
Heels would approach
And broach …
Or in the dark
Car park
A door would bang,
Which rhymes with twang.
Looking back, I recall
Bang
And twang
And fall.
There was a young lady named Gay
Who said “every dog has its day”.
Her dog heaved a sigh
And said “I wonder why,
That can not be today?”
There is an equalitie in the grave
Where the brave,
The coward, the rich and the poor
All must bow down,, to death’s all conquering law.
In the beds of the living,
There may be mutual giving
And equalitie,
But love may not always be free
Long forgotten lists
And secret trysts.
Girl’s wrists
Naked, save for cheap jewels,
So often left behind
For fools
To find.
Inexpensive scent
Grossly overdone.
It is fun
To repent
Over the fact
Of an act
And say, “come future days,
I shall mend my ways”.
The moralist gabs
About heels
And midnight deals
As the stiletto stabs
Again, and perchance leaves a mark
On Lothario’s fickle heart.
Whispering girls, I know
not what you are saying.
Perhaps
‘Tis a kind of praying,
For your first lapse
Happened not long ago.
One cold,
Rigid as an ironing board.
The other bold.
Their desire for gold,
And his aching lust,
All must
End in dust.
An arm thick as the final straw.
The lure
Of the not quite forbidden.
Many have ridden
Down the hidden
track:
Lush
With fragrant bush
And unable or unwilling to turn back
Have themselves been caught
In a mire of desire,
(A secret fire
They aught
Not to have ignited
Or in it’s flames delighted.
‘Ere they found
Their desire was with sorrow crowned
K Morris - Poet 