Leaves blown at night.
Delight
Sorrow.
This moment we borrow
And think of a tomorrow
That may never come.
We run
Perchance have fun
Then, ‘Tis done.
—
Walking my dog at around 4:30 on a blustery December evening, I was conscious of the fallen leaves blowing around me. This gave rise to the above poem.
Kevin
Consequences hang heavy as scent.
To repent
Is bliss.
But oh, her kiss.
Those heels.
The way she kneels.
Venus has caught
All my thought
And brought
Me low
Where angels fear to go.
It will end in woe
For cupid’s arrows sharp
Penetrate the most unsuitable of hearts.
Happy Christmas to all my followers. I wish you all a peaceful festive season and much joy for the coming year.
The below poem was, needless to say written with my tongue firmly in my cheek and should not be taken seriously. I in no manner whatsoever condone animal cruelty.
—
I shall sit upon a chocolate log
As I stuff my faithful dog.
I shall the turkey walk
As my thought
Revolves around
A question most profound
Where should I the stuffing put
As regards my loyal mut!
One day all writers go
To a great library
Where all is dark
Books are unused
And silence pervades
The weather seems colder
As you grow older.
The chip on your shoulder
May become a boulder
Weighing you down.
Be careful lest you drown
In your overwhelming sense of wrong.
Do please change that old song
It has gone on to long.
The record is stuck
Stop wallowing in muck.
The truth is we make our own luck!
I heard
A beautiful bird.
She sang of joy
To man and boy,
And nectar sweet
That I might eat.
She said, “I have flown high
And been lost in the great sky.
Come with me, you can be as I”.
I flew with her, but she did lie.
She wraps me in her warm embrace.
In her face, a kind of grace.
We race
Towards our goal,
To be whole,
For a moment one.
Then it is gone.
We dress and move on.
It is a fine day
And there are bills to pay.
“We will be good tomorrow”
“There will be no more sorrow”.
The clichéd things we say
And there are bills to pay …
Gulls Turning.
Me yearning
To be free
As the sea
You may desire a thing
And whistle in the wind.
But wishes fail to fly
And oft times die
With a doleful sigh.
Such is the lot Of you and I.
K Morris - Poet 