It is often said that the dead
Are, forever, dead
And that only fools believe in ghouls.
But, having read
Of ghosts and vampires. When I retire
To my bed
I feel the dead
Draw near.
And in my troubled dreams I scream
In fear.
Yet ghosts and ghouls
Are for fools –
Or so I hear …
When I met a young lady in red
Who said, “do you read when in bed?”,
I said, “dear Miss Ling
Do you fancy a fling?”,
She said, “I only read in my bed!”
Hearing you cry twice
I thought of rats and mice.
You live in my heart
Inspiring my art.
In Shakespeare’s Macbeth
Your cry portended death.
When I hear your cry
I know I too must die.
But perhaps you and I
Will find in rhyme a kind
Of immortality –
Though, in the graveyard plot
It matters not.
A careless young lady named Miss White
Often falls in the street at night.
A kindly vicar called Paul
Said, “many young women fall”,
As he picked her up last night …!
Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
When a young man named Lee
Went and tried to blackmail me,
I gave a big smile
And said, “meet Mr crocodile!”
Which ended that blackmail and Lee …!
In the churchyard, something fell from a tree
And nearly hit me
There is a time for composing fine rhyme
About graveyards and mortality.
And the occasional limerick can be great fun.
But trees assaulting me!
That makes me run!
There was a young man named Paul
Who jumped off a very high wall.
He aimed for custard
But landed in mustard!
Which was far too hot for Paul!
Fallen leaves
Blown by Autumn’s breeze
Follow me
Into my residence.
There can be
No pretence
In these piling leaves
Of immortality.
But others will hear
The breeze
And see autumn leaves
Blowing near
In other years
When I am gone,
And as one
With leaves.
I have climbed the never ending stair
Leading nowhere.
And explored corridors with so many doors.
And, on opening them
Have found myself in the same place again.
I have savoured many a sweet perfume
In bedrooms.
But the scents all mingle and become one.
And soon are gone.
Yet still I walk another empty corridor
And, opening a door
Find myself where I was before.
With another pretty face.
And me slipping further from grace
K Morris - Poet 