A most beautiful young dancer
Called me a wicked old chancer.
But when she received my present,
She suddenly turned quite pleasant.
And quickly I did romance her!
A Most Beautiful Young Dancer
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Monthly Archives: January 2020
The Dance
Entranced, he watched the dance,
As the girl
Did whirl,
Her feet
Kicking up the dust
Of poets, and dancers,
And other chancers,
Who you may meet
And pass, on the street
Without a second glance.
And the age-old dance
Goes on,
But the dust
Of those long gone
Is not disturbed
By a young woman’s dancing feet
Sinful Delight
Sinful delight
At night
As she, petite
And slim,
Slides in,
Next to him.
Then, beneath the sheet,
Her pleasure she does take,
For a while,
With a smile,
And partake
Of Chocolate cake.
When An Elderly Gentleman Called Harris
When an elderly gentleman named Harris
Took a pleasure trip to Paris,
And approached all the young women,
And spoke to them of sinning,
They drummed him out of Paris!
Spiral
She wrote in her spiral
Notebook. Her pen
Being men.
Some words go viral,
But in her spiral
Notebook, they go round
And round
Again
And again.
Or, maybe, ’tis broken men
Who take up their female pen
And write, again
And again.
‘Tis both women And men
Who employ the same,
Old pen.
And oft times leave behind,
A broken, mind
The Haphazardly Poetical – Finding the Perfect Rhyme for Atrocious
I was delighted that a post of mine on “Why Editors Hate Ryming Poetry”, helped to inspire this poem of Colin’s! Kevin
Photo by Trust “Tru” Katsande on Unsplash
I really don’t think it’s a crime,
But I like all my poems to rhyme.
It’s possibly overly formal –
I prefer that my rhythms stay normal.
And then, if I possibly can,
I prefer every stanza to scan.
You may think I’m being effete,
But I quite like a verse with a beat.
I find that it all feels much neater
When the lines are of requisite metre,
For I really do feel it perverse
When there’s no shape or form to the verse.
So, for those who prefer their verse free,
There is no point in looking at me,
But for people who like their rhymes bad,
Stick around then, ‘cos I am your lad.
For K Morris (Poet) and James (Proclaims) with apologies for taking so long…
Out of Time
My clock’s chime
Is out of time,
Yet I care not
For I see
In my clock
A protest, against modernity.
When A Wicked Young Lady Named White
When a wicked young lady named White
Rang my doorbell at just after midnight,
And I said, “that’s really not acceptable!”,
And she said, “but you’re not respectable!”,
I had to agree with Miss White
Much Poetry Has Been Written
Much poetry has been written
About a country called Great Britain,
Full of antique grandfather clocks
And old maids darning socks,
And miss Marple at her knitting!
I Have Dreamed Many A Dream
I have dreamed many a dream
Where fantasy
Did seem
To be reality.
And I have thought, that I ought
To take care
Lest my dream, turn to nightmare.
For in dreams
All is not what it seems,
And who can fathom
The chasm
That may or may not be
Between a dream,
And reality?
K Morris - Poet 