Door slamming.
Heels on deserted pavements echo
The lure of cash.
The girl’s heart beats fast.
An act;
Her life a car crash.
—
(“Crash” can be found in “The Girl Who Wasn’t There and Other Poems”, which is available in the Amazon Kindle store and can be found here, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0155KSKOC/.
The wind
Did sing
To me
Of eternity,
And bring
My consciousness round
To the profound sound
Of it’s song
In the graveyard tree
Making me,
For a moment, free
When I met a pretty young maid
Who on a violin played,
And I asked, “can I fiddle?”
She played “Hey Diddle Diddle,
And said, sir, “you have not yet paid . . .”.
You clean for me.
I see
You mop and vacuum,
But your room
I do not see.
I pay your fee
Which all agree
is only just
For you dust
For me.
You iron my clothes
And clean my loo,
But heaven knows
I know little about you,
Who clean my loo.
When Brexit has been and gone
The English oak will live on
And continue to provide sanctuary
Under it’s all-embracing shade
To lad and maid
Of every race. For a tree
Does not discriminate, or hate.
In summer
She had not
Much on to do
And it grew
Extremely hot.
Which (strictly between me and you)
Caused quite a to-do . . .
If I could look into your mind
And you into mine,
What would we find?
Will you pretend
That no friendships would end
And that our inner feelings
Would not leave one another reeling?
A smile
May just that be,
A smile
But all agree
That guile
May hide inside a smile.
Some maintain
That man will
Never fully understand the brain,
While still
Others maintain
That you will never find the mind
Within the brain.
I know not whether the mind
Is separate from the brain,
But I can not pretend
That many a friendship would not end
Where you and me
To be able to see
Into the mind
Or brain
Of our dearest friend
I know a talented poet named Purse
Who has published a collection of verse.
Each page has no writing,
Which I find quite exciting,
As its fun to read blank verse . . .
I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m extremely fond,
But when I suggested a date
She just couldn’t wait
To throw me in the pond!
—
I know a pretty young blonde
Of whom I’m extremely fond.
Her name is Louise,
And being a tease
She pushed me in her pond!
—
I know a petite young blonde
Of whom I’m rather fond.
Her name is Louise
And a hive of bees
Nests in her hair dyed blonde!
—
A most saintly vicar named White
Patrols the streets at night,
Where he saves fallen women
From their life of sinning,
By taking them home at night . . .
I sit in quietude
With no
Tech to intrude.
I know
The inanity
And vanity
Of all
This stuff.
Birds call
Yet most men hear not
For the white hot
Heat of technology beckons.
I count the cost
Of countless seconds
Lost
In this screen
Dream
Where you and I
Fly, but never see the sky.
K Morris - Poet 