There was a young lady called Beth
Who refused to dance with Death.
But come close of day
He had his way
And Beth she waltzed with Death
There Was A Young Lady Called Beth
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Category Archives: creative writing
I Know A Young Lady Called Lin
I know a young lady called Lin
Who plays my violin.
At night she plays
And the vicar says
That tis a most terrible sin.
Head Scarf
Her head scarf expresses
That there will
Be no short dresses.
Yet
She is a young woman still
And a woman may regret.
Modesty is all
But the West’s call
Says
That there are other ways
And you may find
That what happens behind
Closed doors, there stays
A Sad Satisfaction
A sad satisfaction
In this distraction
Of Pears.
Her’s
And mine?
For this brief time
If you glean
What I mean
From this little rhyme.
We Burn In Fire
We burn in fire
And in blazing jets
Man temporarily forgets
Himself in desire.
From our waters
Sons and daughters
Are born. Or we run
After fun.
Yet recreation
And procreation
Are oft as the horse and cart
And the hot spring
Does bring
Pain and joy
To the heart
Of girl and boy.
There Was A Young Man Called Paul
There was a young man called Paul
Who composed a limerick about a ball.
It said nothing profound
And went round and round
And how it ended – I don’t recall
The Fridge’s Hum
The fridge’s hum
And the clock’s tick tock
For the most part run,
Unnoticed, as background
Sound
Until they
One day
Stop
There Once Was A Man Called Glass
There once was a man called Glass
Who came from the upper class.
His housemaid Claire
Was young and fair
And she polished her master’s brass.
Ships Slide
Ships slide
And collide
At night when the tide
Is high.
I
Have been left high
And dry
When the tide is gone.
Ships sail on
And I will find sport
At a different port
And ride
The tide
Again
Though it cause me pain.
Sphinxes
You have seen desire
In a lover’s eye
Kindle then die.
You survived the fire
But I know well
That you have no riddle to tell.
Yet had you something to say
To those who pass your way
It would concern
A flame that does burn
Unrequited, for whom or what
I know not,
Or perhaps I hide
Inside the sphinx
Who can see
But will not reveal
The real
Me.
—
This poem was inspired by a visit to Crystal Palace Park, which contains a number of sphinxes https://memoirsofametrogirl.com/2017/01/08/crystal-palace-park-sphinxes-restored-history/
K Morris - Poet 