My thoughts lost on the damp air
Going who knows where.
The sodden grass
I pass
Where children play
but not today.
No ball
or bird call.
Only the rain’s incessant fall.
Lost
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Tag Archives: reading
Passing Through
Walking through the leaves
I perceive
the familiar churchyard.
It is writ large
on these weathered stones
“man is skin and bones.
All we are turns to dust.
Here men are beyond lust.
They sleep fast
And do not ask
Who does pass
By
With a doleful sigh”.
No more are men buried here.
The place is near
to my home.
I am but skin and bone.
I feel the carpet warm as I write.
The morning light
Will soon dispel the remains of night
For a time at least
then eternal peace.
(All Saints Church is close to my home. The graveyard is long since disused although the existing graves are maintained. http://www.allsaintsuppernorwood.co.uk/).
Modernity
Give me something real
Not this plastic I feel.
Give me books in cloth boards
That I may not be bored.
Give me a chime
To measure time.
Give me solid wood
To caress and love.
Give me objects that last
A link to the past.
The world moves fast
Vast
Nothingness beccons.
Enumerable seconds
engaged
In rage
Against the gleam
Of the machine
That haunts my dream.
I am
I am the one you pass without a second glance.
I am the one who can dance
my feet
moving to a forbidden beat.
I am the work that keeps him late
While at home you wait.
I am the scent that lingers
On fingers.
I am a smile
A guilty denial.
I am the bump that grows
Fingers and toes.
I am new life.
You are his wife.
Opening The Wine
She stands,
corkscrew in hand.
The wine beckons.
Seconds,
Crawl past,
Until, at last,
With a twist
Of her wrist,
the cork slowly rises.
There are no surprises.
Fate knocks
as the cork pops.
England On The Eve Of World War I
Sun dappled lawns.
The vicar yawns
As Colonel Trickett
Defends his wicket.
The sound of bat on ball
mingles with a blackbird’s call
that floats
amidst ancient oaks
and the Colonel’s son takes Lucy’s hand
as the sun sets on Angleland.
Wear High Heels
Were high heels for they make you tall
But be careful lest you fall.
Situations are slippery as eels.
The ground feels
firm
but the worm
may turn
and swallow
the hollow
you.
Were high heels for you are pretty
And the citty
Is full of witty
Men
Who employ their pen
To record every slip
And trip.
Watch the pavement as you walk
For people talk
And reputations are brittle as bones
That break on stones …
Raining
I awoke to the rain
drumming on my window pane.
Opening my lattice I let it in
the purifying water that washes away sin.
The hypnotic sound
of rain falling all around.
All my life I have listened to the rain.
The same drumming
of water coming
from the sky
falling on you and I.
The rain has no end
But you and I my friend
May listen for a while
Smile
then pass on by.
This Above All, To Thine Own Self Be True
I must confess to being a little disappointed on receiving the below reply, in response to my submission of several poems to a magazine.
“I read the poems with interest but nothing takes my fancy”.
It would have given me pleasure to see my work featured on a platform other than my own. There is within the heart of man, deny it though he will, a desire for the approbation of his fellows. I am no exception to this rule. I receive a warm glow every time one of my readers likes or comments on my work. Likewise I derive tremendous pleasure on reading reviews left by my readers.
The approbation of others is not, however what drives me to write. Despite the swearing at my computer and the shaking of my fist in frustration when the words fail to come (at the machine I hasten to add), I can not stop writing for I have an itch which needs to be scratched, scratched and scratched again. Thoughts run through my head and must find expression on the page. I can not help myself. I must put pen to paper and leave it to the gods to determine whether or not my words find a place in people’s hearts.
I would like to close by thanking all my readers for following me at newauthoronline.com and reading my work.
Kevin
The Autumn Of My Years
Now that I have reached the Autumn of my years
and the grey has chased the brown away
shall I forget the undiscovered rose
whose perfume
hangs in the air
on a spring night
replete with pure delight?
Should I wear sensible shoes
And lose
The joy of walking
Barefoot on grass?
Shall I seek the fairies dancing
Or insist
They do not exist?
I must persist
In my search for bliss
For to be alive
Is to strive
for something more
Than to achieve the title “saloon bar bore”.
I am not a bee in a hive
A mere part of the whole
Lacking a soul.
Joy is my goal!
K Morris - Poet 