There was a young lady named Leigh
Who invited me round for tea.
We ate lots of cake,
But when I tried to partake
She kicked me out at three!
There was a young lady named Leigh
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Category Archives: creative writing
Meanderings of a Reactionary
What can I say?
The household has lost it’s way.
The old squire sits, paralysed,
His eyes fixed on the vanishing prize
Of what could be
Where he
To begin to believe
And cease to grieve.
For what has been
May once more be seen.
Order has broken down
In the servant’s hall.
Everyone wants the butler’s crown
And King Anarchy holds thrall
Over all.
Once the household as clockwork ran.
Each man
Knew his place.
One might trace
In a face
A sense that things where unfair,
But the squire would swear
That everyone had a job
Be he labourer or nob
(but no, he will not dare
So to say
For far away,
He hears the mob bay).
(Note: in this context, the word “nob” implies a person of wealth and/or high social position).
Ethereal
In honour of the changing seasons, here is my poem, “Ethereal”:
“Sunlight slants through branches.
The ethereal girl dances
As the poet romances
Her
Out of the summer air.
The trill
Of an evening blackbird
Is heard.
Then without a word
She is gone,
Though in his heart she lives on.
Perchance
She will dance
Once more
When Autumn winds roar,
And clothed in russet gown
We will lie down
And forever, sleep”.
(“Ethereal” can be found in “Refractions”, which is available from Amazon, as an ebook and can be found here, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L5UC2H2).
There was a young man named Paul
There was a young man named Paul,
Who was a Socialist as I recall.
He quaffed expensive champagne
With his aristocratic wife Jane
And they lived in his ancestoral hall.
There was a young lady named Nell
There was a young lady named Nell,
(She was a girl who I knew well).
We went out on a date
With her best friend kate,
And a gentleman refuses to tell …
LongAgo
Long ago
I used to know
A lady who thought that Communism was best.
So, we sat drinking fine wine
(Enjoying the trappings of the west),
And I would smile while
She argued that the Berlin wall
Must not fall
As it protected,
The system she respected.
She was neither bad nor mad
But I, as a mere lad
Could see
The people of the east were not free.
A precocious teenager I was
Who argued because
I believed,
And also I perceived
That it was fun
To have adults on the run.
Now the wall has come down
And secret policemen drown
Their sorrows in champagne,
And use their brain
For financial gain.
My old friend
Saw Communism’s end.
I wonder does she remember a precocious teen
Who did preen,
Yet maintained a dream
That tyranny would end
And believed,
That for all its faults
The West
Was best?
Dreams
There are dreams, streams
Of consciousness of which I shall not speak,
For I am weak
And would not have you know
Where I go
In sleep,
Lest you weep
For my dark heart.
I shall not tell you of my nightmares
For you have cares
Of your own
And, when alone
I would not have thee see
What tortures me.
I shall not open my heart
For you have dark
Thoughts enough of your own.
So let us leave our demons alone
Until they creep
Out in sleep
And we, in earnest weep.
There was a young lady named Ocean
There was a young lady named Ocean
Who brewed a potent love potion.
It was taken by a hoary old sailor
(Who went by the name of Tailor),
I hear he got lost in the ocean.
—
There was a young lady named Ocean
Who brewed a potent love potion.
It was composed of sea salt
And no one could halt
The effects of that potent love potion!
They did it because
A young student ‘twas
Who did it because
She had spent her loan
And being alone,
Took a decision rash
To raise some cash.
A man of the world he was
Who did it because
He saw
Just another she
– Merely a whore,
For what does it matter
When a girl’s dreams shatter?
There was a young writer named Coaker
There was a young writer named Coaker
Who’s work was considered mediocre.
When the critics criticised,
He rolled his eyes
And whacked them with a poker!
K Morris - Poet 