Sometimes I would
That I could
Write about flowers,
Yet the night
Hours slowly pass
And my thought
Runs on lass
And ought?
‘Tis strange how interpretations differ.
Some will
Read a poem “as is”,
But what is “as is?”
When all is still
At night
The poet may
Stay away
And write
A verse
Or, with a curse
Taste the apple of Eve
Although he does know
That he should leave
The fruit, once sweet
Untasted, he will eat.
Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.
They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.
A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.
Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.
The fruit grows within easy reach.
How simple to take a peach
Or plum.
How delightfully does temptation come.
The juice turns to gall.
Better to let the fruit fall
or be gathered by other hands.
But desire commands
us to pick
and sip.
The devil’s tune seems sweet
and once our feet
begin to dance
We have no chance
To stop
but must waltz until we drop.
K Morris - Poet 