Breathing in the fresh evening air
I wander along
Conscious of birdsong.
The birds sing without a care
And soon I will be there
With her.
I dare
Say there
Will be a conversation
Over our meal.
What do I feel?
Anticipation
At the thought of what I know will come?
The birds Continue to trill.
The evening will
Run
Away in laughter
And drink.
I think
On The dull thrill
Of what comes after
A passing triumph, lost in a disaster.
I gazed upon a flower, a thing of beauty.
A scientist said, “It is my duty
To explain it’s purpose,
Let us look beneath The petals surface”.
I watched how the light did slant
Throwing dancing beams upon the plant.
But the scientist ranted
About the structure of that flower, so lovingly planted.
Is not a poem a thing of beauty?
Yet the critic sees it as his duty
To deconstruct every line.
Oh what happened to the poet’s verse divine?!
Why spend hours
Analysing poems and flowers
When we can revel in beauty
Forgetting “duty”?
The audience watches askance
As they dance
On the edge
Of a ledge.
Feet moving faster.
The music and laughter.
What follows after
Cool reflection or disaster?
She stoops but who conquers?
The situation bonkers.
A man old enough to be her father.
They would rather
Not think
On those who wink
And titter.
A bitter taste
Is a man’s disgrace
Yet still men dally
With silk and lace.
Many skirt
The issue.
The time is short
And dearly bought.
A tissue
Of lies
And midnight sighs.
A girl growing up forsook
The straight path and took
A step down a perilous track.
One may turn back
But many lack
The will.
In the still
Of night
Delight
For one.
A soul is gone
And time rolls on.
Greying hairs.
She swears
All is not lost
And counts the cost
Of fixed smiles
And denials
No longer believed
By those she deceives.
Nightmare.
Terrors buried deep
Creep
Out and stare
Me full in the face.
There is no hiding place
When the black mare
Stirs
From the stable.
Her coat sable
As night.
Banishes delight.
Awaking.
Shaking
Off fear
Yet nightmare crouches near.
In the shadows she hides
And bides
Her time waiting for sleep
Then out she doth creep.
I turn and run
But my dark mistress must have her fun.
When day is done
She will come.
You visit in the early morn.
Your note chill
Sends a thrill
Through man and mouse.
The house
Is quiet.
Only your cry forlorn
Does warn.
Disquiet
Carrying from the Lawns.
A mere bird
Yet your voice heard
Down the long years
Inspires fears
And seers
Grey
Fortell a dismal day.
—
The Lawns is an historic park situated close to my home in Upper Norwood, (http://www.londongardensonline.org.uk/gardens-online-record.asp?ID=CRO040).-
A perfect pare.
So ripe and fair.
To have you there
A perfect pair.
No one to stare
Where
The perfect pare hangs
Within easy reach of hands
That desire
To quench a fire.
The love of fruit
Is At the root
Of the fall from grace.
A place
Called Paradise, where Eve ate the apple.
The sunlight no longer dapples
Eden’s Lawns
where innocent fawns
Where wont to Play.
Or so the moralists say.
All this will pass away
But I have fruit today …
A moralist gazed upon a flower soft
And with delicacy coughed.
“’Tis most unseemly” said he
“To see
The bee
Make free
With thee.
Thou has forsook
The holy book.
Think on hell
And mark it well
Lest in torment you dwell”.
The flower spake
“Oh moralist forsake
This obsession
With the repression
Of girl and lad.
Wouldst thou have the whole world sad?
Can not you be glad
At the joy
Of maid and boy?
The moralist shook his grey head
And said
“Thou should dread hell’s fire
For desire
Is sin.
Satan enters in
And God destroys
Those who wallow in lustful joys.
The flower said, “breathe in my scent
And relent
Of strictures severe.
Come you near
And touch my throbbing heart.
Let me teach you love’s art.
Give me your hands,
And we will travel to undiscovered lands”.
The moralist did relent
And partook of the flower’s scent.
The heavens where not rent
And the sky’s great tent
Failed to fall.
Only the nightingale’s call
Filled the spring air
Where the lovers dallied without a care.
Sometimes the words won’t come
And my thoughts run
Confused
Away.
I lose
The sense of what I want to say.
My muse
Doth refuse
To play
Today.
Oh how thin
Is the divide betwixt virtue and sin.
A rake’s grin
Or a smile
That beguiles
Girls who flirt
In skirts
Short.
Ought?
Ought not?
Passion hot.
Cool reflection
May lead to dejection.
There is no rejection
When the coin does spin
And what some call sin
Enters in.
K Morris - Poet 