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Lesley Morris Poem
Winter sestina
on summer nights she cupped love in her heart
tasted the honey of a gentle kiss
and the heat of an exotic garden,
she roamed in a rabble of wild colours, with rows of chillies
red hot in the sun, back when she was young,
heart hammering, fluttering like a bird
she knew a freedom then and flew, like a bird
on the wind of words that touched her heart,
like Spring she burst with the richness of the young
she danced and claimed her man for a kiss
her blood burning in her like juice of chillies
she was exploring love and luscious in the garden
now frost silvers the branches in the garden
she fluffs herself in feathers like a bird,
her tropical thoughts, hot as chillies
still simmer in a corner of her heart,
though she has passed the joys and langour of the kiss
she knows the white heat of being young
she has a freedom too, not felt when she was young
is curious to know who lives now in the garden,
she knows the thousand meanings of a kiss
and feels the height and flight of every bird,
the smiles of those she loves nest in her heart
warming her blood and glowing like chillies
in a shadowed door she sits and strings the chillies
watching the posturing of the young,
benevolent, smiling, letting loose her heart
in memories of time once spent in a garden
when all she could hear was the singing of the bird
and all her dreams were garnished with a kiss
her love flows broader now, gifted with a kiss
the wind of her years rattles her old bones, like chillies
on a tin roof in the sun, watched by a bird
who remembers too, how it was to be young,
who flew and nested in a golden garden
and sang the songs that touched the woman’s heart
now, in winter frost, her heart is warmed with every childish kiss,
in the garden are scattered seeds and skins of long dead chillies,
and the young ones listen for the voice of the bird
Copyright © Lesley Morris | Year Posted 2017
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Lesley Morris Poem
Villanelle for Grief
I try to wear my widow’s weeds with flair you know
go out into the world a bit, not stay indoors and hide,
but grief sits on my shoulder like an old black crow
In many ways I am the same, though time is passing slow
I’ve done my time – release me now – I’ve mourned enough and cried
I try to wear my widow’s weeds with flair you know
I’ll not let them tangle in my hair, I’ll not rend my clothes, or show
the wild one who lives now deep inside
but grief sits on my shoulder like an old black crow
I’ll keep his house and garden well, and watch the seasons flow,
I’ll do my make-up, take great care not to let things slide,
I try to wear my widow’s weeds with flair you know
his death was shocking, a violent, piercing, blow,
the tremors, they ran far and wide that sunny Friday when he died
and grief sits on my shoulders like an old black crow
so in this town, and in this house, I watch the children grow
go to the park and swing and slide, then pace the room from side to side
I try to wear my widow’s weeds with flair you know
but grief sits on my shoulder like an old black crow
Jan 2017
Copyright © Lesley Morris | Year Posted 2017
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Lesley Morris Poem
Jamaican Pantoum New Year’s Day 2015
I wake to the crash of the surf on rock
lean to see the palm trees sway
hear the blackbirds scold and mock
see driftwood floating in the bay
I watch the palm trees bend and sway
feel the sea’s breath stroke my skin
leaves and driftwood litter the bay
and freedom stirs within
the sea breeze soft upon my skin
I sense a turning of the tide
a seed of freedom blooms within
and laughter bubbles deep inside
I move with the turning of the tide
burn as the fire burns in my soul
I’m wild and laughing deep within
I know nothing, have no goal
I know a fire burns in my soul
I hear the blackbirds scold and mock
but this moment now, it has no goal
I’ll lie and listen to surf on rock
Copyright © Lesley Morris | Year Posted 2017
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Lesley Morris Poem
The Scuba Diver
we look down
signal frantically
‘come up’,
though it is already
too late
he dances wide eyed
with ecstasy
as the nitrogen
tickles his cells
anemones
cling to the steep
rock walls
fish feed and dawdle
incuriously
we peer through
our tiny windows
into the ink black sea
as he goes
free wheeling
down,
down,
a rictus of laughter
on his face
Copyright © Lesley Morris | Year Posted 2017
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