To walk through acorns
On Autumn lawns
While barefoot
Would give me pleasure
In this gentle weather.
But they might shut me up
Where the air
Is replete with bleach
And fluorescent lights
Burn day and night.
I would long for birdsong
And lawns
Littered with acorns.
I should walk barefoot.
I would attract strange looks.
But there would be no hospital ward.
To confine me.
Just the reward
Of autumn grass
Under my feet.
I should go
Before old time defeats
All I am
And see
I’m grateful to East Croydon Cool for promoting my new poetry collection Shadows and Birdsong by featuring my poem “Caught Up in Thoughts of Work”. You can see their Instagram post here: https://www.instagram.com/p/DdGqxRyMNgs/?hl=en-gb
At the edge of the churchyard
I pause as a solitary bird sings.
Spring has long gone.
And early Autumn says all ways
End in the churchyard.
The traffic passes.
The heat has passed,
Temporarily.
The rain
Turns the grass
Green again.
Autumn draws near.
Another year
Will come.
But, if I am no longer here
Will it still be so?
Philosophers go
Down rabbit holes.
While I see
The rain
Has brought the greenery
Back again.
And I feel happy,
Temporarily.
All smells fresh after rain.
The scent of wet earth
Speaks of rebirth.
But excess heat
Will defeat the rain.
These dead leaves
Hang
Or fall
And I recall
Autumn is yet to come.
The weather is good
(According to some).
In the summer wood
Leaves long dead
Brush my greying head.
Autumn will come
And the heat cease.
Yet leaves fall
And I recall
Autumn is yet to come.
In my childhood
I collected conkers and acorns
From leaf-strewn lawns
Today there is little breeze
And the leaves
Fall from trees
Thirsting for drink
And I hope for rain.
It will come,
But what has been done
Can not be undone
He bought
Her smile
And thought
For a while
He had caught
Her heart.
But, at break of day
She slipped away
Leaving her imprint
In ink
I met a young lady named Heart
Who asked me to show her my art.
She was full of desire
And did greatly admire –
And then I showed her my art
When I found a young man named Dave
Lying in a freshly dug grave,
And I said, “are you dead?”,
He said, “No! I am ted!”
I said, “No, you are most definitely Dave!”
Let us deconstruct all things
In this Postmodernist day.
All our elusions must fall
Away
And everything be analysed
Until our eyes
Can no longer see
Beyond this reductionist
Ideology
K Morris - Poet 