When a young lady named Leigh
Said, “do you like my poetry?”,
I said, “its very nice,
But its full of vice,
So I really like it Leigh!”.
When A Young Lady Named Leigh
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Monthly Archives: December 2019
My Hands Are Cold
My hands are cold
And I am growing old.
The wall clock measures time
As I rhyme
Of young women
And sinning.
But I am growing old
And my hands are cold.
Passing
Thinking of a young woman I met,
I enter my bathroom.
No scent of perfume,
Just cars, in the distance passing by.
There is nothing to regret
So why do I
Think on a young woman I met
And cars passing me by?
Great Feedback On My “Selected Poems”
I was delighted to receive the following email earlier today:
“Dear Mr Morris,
I am writing to tell you that your poems in “The Collected Poems of K Morris” that you gave me on the train on my way to college are exceptional. You might not remember me but I am the girl doing politics and history that you met on the train and gifted your amazing book to. I have always been interested in writing poems and therefore you have really inspired me to carry on my interest and write some poems of my own. I would really like to thank you for gifting me your book and inspiring me to continue writing”.
“The Selected Poems of K Morris” can be found here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for the UK), and here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/. (for amazon.com customers).
(Please note, I have not included the young lady’s name in order to protect her privacy).
A Young Man Named Lake
A young man named Lake
Said, “your poems are very opaque”.
So I wrote one in latin,
About girls in pink satin,
Who keep wicked old poets awake.
Shy Girl
As the vicar spoke of hell fire, and how the wicked are condemned to eternal torment, the sexton gazed sideways at his youngest daughter – a girl with the figure of a dancer. A real heart breaker he thought, and yet she was pure as the newly fallen snow on the nearby moors, before the cattle had trampelled through the drifts, leaving their footprints and dung behind.
Alice, (his 18-year-old daughter) sat, her eyes half closed in the pew, a dreamy expression on her face. Her prayer book lay open (but unheeded) on her lap.
—
“Can I help you miss?”, the shop girl said to the young woman who stood, her nails digging into her palms at the counter.
“Yes err … err”.
The shop assistant repressed a sigh. She’d seen it all before,but couldn’t help getting impatient at times.
“Miss?”
“I’d …”,
The assistant smiled encouragingly.
“Do you have, whips?”, the young woman whispered, her face turning the colour of beetroot.
The assistant reached under the counter and withdrew 2 whips. One was of the fluffy, joke variety, whilst the other was of the kind used by jockeys.
“I’ll take that one”, the young woman said, pointing to the fearsome looking riding crop.
“Cash or card, Miss?”.
“Oh god, no card, cash!”, the customer said, her hands fumbling in her purse.
—
“This rounds on me”, the young student said.
“Thanks”, Marie said. And as her friend went to the student bar to pay for 10 drinks, Marie wondered, as she had on many previous occasions, where her friend got the money for those expensive clothes and the leather handbag she sported.
—
With trembling hands the vicar typed, “Saturday at 9 pm. Usual place. OK with you?”. Then moistening his dry lips he clicked send.
—
“There’s this new club opening in town this Saturday. Are you up for it?”, Marie said.
“Nope, sorry, I’m visiting my family this Saturday”, Alice said and, despite her best eforts her cheeks burned …
Gulls
I
Hear the seagulls cry,
In Liverpool,
And recall my grandfather, who said,
“They warn of a storm
out at sea”.
Am I a fool
To believe what he said?
I know that the ocean’s commotion
Will long outlast me,
And the waves will still roar
When man is no more.
Duck
Girls from ghettos
In cheap
Stilettos
Keep
The numbers of regulars on their mobile.
And, when down on their luck
Will text, or phone
And say, to men who are alone,
“Let me make you smile.
Come and feed a duck.
And lonely men reach for bread
For the duck
Must be fed
‘Ere a man’s need
For spilled
Seed,
Can be fulfilled.
Hitman
He steaddied the rifle against the window ledge and, gazing along the barrel saw the target, on the beach far below.
Just another hit, he thought, as he watched the living dead hand in hand with a petite blonde. She was not his wife, he knew as much. That did not, of course bother him in the slightest. Other people’s sex lives where a matter of complete indifference to him. What was of concern to the hitman was the £20,000 he would receive once the target was neutralised.
She was pretty that blonde. He wouldn’t mind having her between his sheets, he thought as he lined up the rifle on the target.
The sea, far below roared and a gull walked, casually along the crumbling cliff edge.
It had been a stroke of luck finding this house abandoned at the top of the cliff path, he thought as his finger tightened on the trigger.
The man below bent to kiss the blonde, just as the finger of the hitman squeezed tight on the Trigger.
The report of the gun was, as he knew it would be, lost in the roar of the sea and the crying of the gulls.
As lips touched below, the bullet sailed high above the target’s head. Then the roar of the sea and the crying of the gulls was joined by another louder roar as the cliff, long the subject of erosion by wind and sea gave way, taking the house so precariously balanced at the cliff edge with it. The report had been the final straw that had broken the camel’s back, bringing house and hitman crashing down to the unforgiving waves below.
“Christ”, that was a near thing, the target said, as he gazed at the fallen rocks only some hundred yards from where he and his petite mistress stood, horror struck on the beach below.
The end
Friday Afternoon Humour
When a young lady named Lou
Got her shoe stuck in very strong glue
And she said, “help me get it off!”,
I said, with a delicate cough,
“But we are in public just now, Lou!”.
—
When I saw a witches coven
Dancing around a very hot oven
And they said, “come here”,
I offered them some beer,
And joined them in their coven.
K Morris - Poet 