You called him, who does lack
The capacity to answer back
A “parasite”.
Whilst its undoubtedly true
That you have a right
To your point of view,
I do wonder what use are you
To society But, out of propriety
Of course I didn’t say that . . .
When a young lady of an ancient profession
Said, “sir, I must make a shocking confession,
Do you know
A bishop Jo?”,
I replied, “dear madam, please show some discretion!”.
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or maybe
They can not be said
Meaningfully by me.
As does nearly always happen
My train stopped, dead
At Clapham
(Though not for its proper, brief
Stay). We did not pull away.
What can be said
About grief
(Not experienced by me)?
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry.
When, that evening I came back
The track at Clapham
Was clear.
We made good time.
Though a drear
Thought did cross my mind,
But I find
That some things can not easily be said
In rhyme
By me, as I sit here, warm
Thinking of the ajacent platform
And how our train stopped, dead,
But, perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or at least by me.
A young man whose name is Lee
Has a degree in philosophy.
He is extremely clever
And married to Heather,
And he serves a mean cream tea!
I met a girl in
A sequin
Top. Being blind
I find
That I notice the tactile.
And sequins,
Being tactile
I can not deny,
That I
Thought on sins.
The binmen
Make
A lot of noise when
They take
The rubbish away
At 6:20 am.
My alarm ushers in
Another day
Of virtue and sin.
But what does it matter my friend
When all men
Are bound for the dustbin
In the end?
When a young lady named Leigh
Composed a poem about me,
Of course I was flattered,
But the fish wasn’t battered,
So we had steak for tea!
There once was a virile young man
Who, on seeing a passing pram,
Doffed his hat
To the mother,
And said, “I once had a lover,
Who looked a lot like that . . .!”.
My blog is a place of life and death.
A few who have commented here have lost their breath
And gone to a great, silent house
Where no word is heard
And the click of mouse
Is, forever staid.
They have their part played
In the blogasphere
And now are memorialised here
Through their comments, some may choose to peruse.
But should you click on a link to their blog, it may well be dead,
Or say
“He passed away
And this site his friends retain so that you may
Read what he, who is dead,
Once said”.
Others comment still
And will,
I hope continue to do so
For a long time to come
As their words enliven this site,
Yet none of us know
When our night
May come
And take us to a place
Where we
Are, forever free
Of technology,
But perhaps our words wil live on
After we are gone
In virtual pages
Or through printed book
Where, in future ages
Readers will look
And maybe remark
“He has gone to the dark,
But he had something to say
Which is why
I read him today”.
Do lamp posts
Show, by their fitful glow
The ghosts
Of sinners long ago?
And, on seeing that fitful glow
Do dying men go
Back, down that dark track
And perceive
Ghosts under lamp posts.
And, if so
Do they grieve
For the money spent
On cheap scent
Long ago?
Perhaps it is so,
But That, I can not know.
K Morris - Poet 