The dead may speak,
Through the poet’s art.
His readers may weep.
Yet, some things run so deep,
They can not be expressed in art.
The Dead May Speak, Through The Poet’s Art
Leave a reply
Monthly Archives: December 2020
When A Young Lady Wearing Pink Slippers
When a young lady wearing pink slippers
Offered me some very old kippers,
And I said, “are they safe?”,
She enfolded me in her embrace.
And gave me slippers with those kippers!
I Face My Darkening Window
I face my darkening window.
My curtain
Will shut out the night.
I know
Morning’s light
Must come.
But who can be certain
That he
Will see
The sun?
Takeaway
You can find
Any kind
Of takeaway.
Thai or Chinese.
Or whatever you please
Is online.
But, you must pay
A fee
For your takeaway.
As to dine
Does not come free
And, after
the wine
And laughter,
Your delivery will depart,
Leaving no broken heart.
Miss Bond
I know a young lady named Bond
Of whom I’m extremely fond.
She has very petite feet.
But that girl knows how to eat!
And this song is far too long!
When A Naughty Young Lady Named Miss Michelle
When a naughty young lady named Miss Michelle
Said, “I have a sinful tale to tell”.
The good vicar Paul
Said, “all mortals fall”.
And he winked at that young lady Michelle …
Kisses
Her kiss (so desired),
My body fired
By lust.
And after
The kisses, and laughter,
Thoughts of dust.
There Is Snow On The Lawn
A couple of weeks ago, I composed a poem entitled “December Snow”, which was subsequently read by me on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series.
Today I awoke to find the lawn covered in late December snow, so thought I would re-post my reading of the poem, http://www.coopradio.org/content/world-poetry-caf%C3%A9-120.
December Snow:
A typical, December day.
The sun has stopped
Away,
And the temperature has dropped.
The forecasters say
There may
Be snow.
I well remember the December
Snow.
And playing on frozen pond.
But oh, so long Ago!
And I shall grow
Old. and remember December
Snow.
We count the cost
Once things are lost.
And the foolish, wishing to sunbathe,
Pray for the coming heatwave.
Waking, Much Later Than Intended
Waking, much later than intended
I see
The pretended,
And rush to make tea.
For my fun
is ended
And we must run.
I to my desk
And she
Home, to her rest.
Delight for a night
Maybe mine,
Again, for a time.
To rhyme
Is free
And tea
Is cheap.
While her smile
Will beguile
For a while
Sparrows In A Tree
A myriad sparrows singing
To me from a tree.
Their song
Bringing joy
To girl and boy.
I know not how long
My song
May be.
But sparrows in a tree,
Sang to me.
K Morris - Poet 