The desk is cold to my hand.
I can not command
My poetic muse.
So think of girls who lose their shoes,
And poets who
Say more than they ought to
Of women and wine
And men who may seem
To spend their time
In fleeting dreams.
But it is no crime
For a poetic muse
To lose
Her ethereal shoes.
Yet what can be said
Should she lay her fickle head
Upon the poet’s empty bed
Where love sleeps.
Or is dead.
Being blind I find
I can read and write in the dark.
I have some small sight
So turn on the light at night
To prevent the stubbing of toes
And avoid
The stairs.
For, if I fall
All dreams and nightmares
May end
And eternal dark descend.
But the night
Will shut out the light
For us all
In the end
Whether we have blind eyes
Or otherwise.
The desk is cold to my hand.
I can not command
My poetic muse.
So think of girls who lose their shoes,
And poets who
Say more than they ought to
Of women and wine
And men who may seem
To spend their time
In fleeting dreams.
But it is no crime
For a poetic muse
To lose
Her ethereal shoes.
Yet what can be said
Should she lay her fickle head
Upon the poet’s empty bed
Where love sleeps.
Or is dead.
There was a young lady of Peru
Who was famous for losing a shoe.
One hot day in May
They found it in Bombay,
Which was strange as she’d never left Peru!
The rain fell
In the wood I know well.
I could say it’s sound
Was very profound
And the forest rang with birdsong.
All of this is true.
But I was wet through
And wanted home
And hot tea!
A young man who works as a waiter
Has a reputation as an unreliable narrator.
He has written a novel
In a rundown old hovel.
But some whisper, he’s only a waiter …!
A young lady who wears 1 spectacle
Has a reputation for being very respectable.
I’ve seen her at night
Dancing by the moon’s light,
And she’s only been wearing 1 spectacle …!
I have heard it said
That girls kick a shoe under the bed
In a purely accidental way.
Then, in retrieving their footwear they take care
To check for knives
Or other things that threaten lives.
And, should they find more than a shoe
(which some girls do),
They run from men
Who would harm them.
But not all girls do.
And of those who do
Not all make their escape …
There once was an author named Kafka
Whose books are all lacking in laughter.
There can be no denial,
For I have it on file:
His books are all lacking in laughter.
The scent of cheap perfume
Pervades an overheated room.
She in her mini skirt
And too high heels.
He in t-shirt and jeans.
They play their scenes.
She loses skirt and heels
And feels
The threadbare carpet under her feet.
She wants to sleep …
Sometimes she weeps,
But not in front of them.
He sighs.
His fun is done.
Occasionally he cries,
Though not when they can see.
The same dance
Of no romance
Over and over again
To hide his pain.
She has a child to feed
Or perhaps some other need.
Sometimes he wonders about them.
But they are free
As is he …
To choose …
K Morris - Poet 