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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing March 2023
The Economy of Leaves , poems by David Morgan.
The Economy of Leaves
A shopping bag brim full to bursting
Of fresh cut leaves from some distant trees
Palm-like, richly veined, elongated
Sinuously green resplendent
Elegantly shaped as if fashioned in some studio
Nature’s beguiling artistry
Carried along to the florists
Traded to adorn the dinner table
Spread out, fluffed up, presented
For the perfect party or business lunch
Displayed but left unnoticed
Wilting before the soiree
So peremptorily dumped
Into the recycle bin
Destiny composted
Back to the land where found
An organic cycle complete
Unwasted beauty reborn
As sinews of another form
Silent Friends
They grow assuredly unabashed
Slowly unfolding all their secrets
While you watch them
Patience is their only requirement
They display proudly their petals
Like birds in full plumage
For your eyes to please
They intoxicate your rooms
With the sweetest of scents
More delicate than a classy concoction
That any glass bottles contain
They stand still quivering quietly
Our best of silent friends
They don’t stare you out or shout you down
They ask of you nothing in return at all
Only a little water sparingly poured
Infrequent delicate pruning
Your care and attention
Engender rich rewards
True selfless love is a flower
Concert Pieces
Like Hammer horror heroines
Graced in flowing silky robes
Flowing locks of hair cascading down
Pallid complexion, dark eyes shadowed
Blood red lips, gleaming teeth
As if primed to bite
Ingrid Pitt, Susan Denberg
Jennifer Daniel, Barbara Shelley
Andree, sister of the more famous George
Long forgotten all
Dressed up in their translucent finery
Glamour fit for the ball
Spirits of a more innocent age
Concert goers, music lovers
Arms of alabaster and shoulders too
All unsalaciously exposed to view
Each and every one untattooed
Clasping only their pretty going-out bags
Smart phones as yet uninvented
Undisturbed by incessant chatter
They listen attentively and learn
Entranced as the music plays
Once the lights dim and the curtain rises
Nothing else seems to matter
Denizens of an innocent age
Now gone forever
As if…If Only
Or How War Will End
I had a dream that one dark evening
Some benign spirits decided to intervene
They inveigled themselves into the artillery yards
Of all the world’s combatants
To surreptitiously replace every bullet and bomb
With the most exquisite delicate fresh flowers
And all the soldiers failed to notice
So off to war they marched
Only to cascade their enemy
With the harmless blooms
Wreathing the battlefield
In roses and diverse posies
And the people gathered up all the flowers
Smelled the sweet scent and smiled gently
Embracing each other tightly
As if…if only
Scoons for Tea
Weekend shop assistants with angelic faces
Beware their enchanting smiles
Behind the bakery counter
Out to impress with your choice of shopping
A rich array of sumptuous, scrumptious,
inevitably overpriced, cakes and pastries
loaves in ingenious shapes and shades
Brown, off white and speckled
From crusty to soft as cushions
You queue among the affluent families
Rolex bejewelled and exotically scented
For the last remaining cream puff tart
A farmhouse loaf, chocolate croissant
Lemon slice, iced bun
Scone with silent e
invariably pronounced ‘scoon’
The honey and spelt has all long gone
By half past three
Make do with a granary then for tea
So, invite no-one round
Consume at home all by yourself
True pleasure gained in isolation
Inconspicuous consumption
Indulgence free from accusation
Un-eyed upon, unspied upon
A new year begins
Though I am not new
Feeling older than before
My life’s almost through
New fears arise
There’s an awful lot to do
There’s a hole in my shoe
Where the sun shines through
So much walking still to do
But we will stride on
We will pull through
Facing the future anew
Bold, confident and true
Cold Sugar
Opening up my fridge door
One evening to reach for the milk
I encountered a remarkable sight
One incongruously baffling
Impossible to conceive how it had happened
How I had made it happen
Only I could have done it
No supernatural handiwork
Nothing untoward
No airy spirit playing tricks
But still unfathomable
An occurrence quite bizarre
A bag of brown sugar
Placed inside the fridge
As if it belonged there
Alongside the tub of butter
Pack of yoghurts, blue topped litre of milk
Orange juice, block of cheese
All resting in their natural habitat
But a bag of sugar?
It made me shudder
Cold brown sugar
Waiting to be stirred into my tea
But why are you in the fridge?
That’s never happened before
And I cannot for the life of me
Ever remember putting it there
© David Morgan
David Morgan is the author of The Good Old Cause – Communist Intellectuals and the English Radical Tradition and co-author of Writers of the Left in An Age of Extremes, both published in London by the Socialist History Society, of which he is the secretary. David is a journalist and editor who is interested in exploring the connections between literature and history. David has contributed to two collections of poems from the London Voices Poetry Group.