Some women
I see in shoes
Caked in mud.
Such women
Are good.
So why do I choose
Those in high-heels,
Who flirt
But know not the noble dirt
Of fields?
When a girl’s perfume
Fills the room
It is easy to pretend
My friend
That we do not yield
To the good mud
Of the fields,
In the end.
Being blind
I find
No traces
Of faces
In the loud
Blank crowd
Which might, my memory spark.
My world is not dark.
I see
The outline of post and tree,
Though I can not see
The individual She
(Other than an outline
I am unable to define).
I recall the feel
Of a girl’s high-heel
And the dress
I felt
(‘Twas more belt
Than dress).
I recollect a caress
(Sometimes meant)
And girl’s sweet scent.
And the click
Of heels
As the clock’s tick
Unnoticed, steals.
I can grasp
Elements of the past,
But I am unable to trace
The individual face.
Though, with my sense of touch
I have much
Done, in love or fun.
Tis easy to forget
Regret
In a girl’s bright eyes.
For betwixt her life-giving thighs
Man for a moment dies
In love or lust.
‘Tis a prelude
Ere he does conclude
Where dust
Does replace
The girl’s pretty face
And man is bust.
The kiss without love.
The glove
Full
Of a dull
Release
Will bring no peace
Two is company but three
Is a crowd you see.
Yet for some three is the magic number.
Fear of judgement may encumber
The desire to fish
But still waters run deep
And the wish
To sleep
May overtake
And secret fires wake
The below first appeared here on 15th August 2015:
“The passage of time muddles the brain, I don’t recall your name.
Perhaps Marie or Melisa, no matter its all the same.
Though some would consider it shocking, it meant absolutely nothing,
You kept on your stockings,
I feared my neighbours knocking.
It signified everything and nothing,
A girl in suspenders and stockings”.
His bed learned to speak.
Ere the week
Had passed,
That bed was only good
For firewood …
There is an equalitie in the grave
Where the brave,
The coward, the rich and the poor
All must bow down,, to death’s all conquering law.
In the beds of the living,
There may be mutual giving
And equalitie,
But love may not always be free
Different shapes and sizes.
Once there were surprises.
Now whatever he devises
Passion rarely rises.
Black or white?
What does it matter?
Sometimes a brief delight,
But most dreams shatter
Many a man’s goal
Is derailed by the beat
Of stillettoed feet
That tear a hole
In his suffering soul.
K Morris - Poet 