Some men love the horserace.
‘Tis the thrill of winning
After which they chase.
Others prefer another kind of punting,
A hunting
After fallen women.
‘Tis a type of bet,
Which some call sinning,
Which may end in regret
Or pleasure, but never winning
When you saw her with me
And I asked, “did she
Look Happy?”
You answered “yes”
Which, I must confess
Made me
Smile, for she
Did not smile
Away her time
With me
For the love of my rhyme,
And a smile may beguile,
Reveal or conceal
Simultaneously, while
All you see
Is a smile
That does grace
A girl’s pretty face . . .
I met a young lady named Lou
Who Said, “I will model for you”.
I found it quite shocking
When she took off a stocking,
But then she lost a shoe!
—
I met a young lady named Lou
Who said, “I will model for you”.
I found it real shocking
When a girl called Hocking
Came and joined in too!
—
I met a young lady named Lou
Who said, “I will model for you”.
I found it real shocking
When she removed a stocking,
But then she took off my shoe!
When a young man named Mitch
Said, “poetry will make me rich!”,
A young lady called Moriah
Sighed, “I must marry the squire,
For poetry does not make one rich!”.
Standing under this rain drenched tree
I hear the breeze
That rustles the leaves
Whisper to me.
Then, a sneeze,
Brings me back to reality.
We start our play
At break of day
In joy or sorrow,
And when sleep does us take
We pray
That we shall wake
To play
Another day.
I have uploaded six new poems to my Soundcloud:
Please note I have added a Soundcloud widget, which allows you to listen to the content without leaving WordPress.
In addition, I have added a number of new pictures and content to my Instagram which can be accessed here.
When a young lady whose name is Bess
Said, “my sins I must confess”,
I made prompt reply,
“No priest am I,
And your hair is a terrible mess!”.
—
When a young lady whose name is Bess
Said, “my sins I must confess”,
I said, with a sigh,
“No priest am I,
Now please put on your dress!”.
I flick through
Contacts on my mobile phone.
True they
Make it easy to
Keep in touch by phone
Or text,
Although it does vex
Me that technology
Renders memory
Unnecessary, for why keep
In your head
Numbers stored on the cold phone?
And you sleep
Forever in a house of stone,
Your number, dead,
On my useless phone.
I shall sit under this graveyard tree
And think on Gray’s Elegy.
The ploughman is as a sod
As are the great.
Oft of an evening late
I ponder on Gray
Who, one day
Wrote an Elegy
Which resonates now with me.
His verse will live on
Long after I am gone
And I doubt not
That this tree
Which overlooks this graveyard plot
Will outlast me.
K Morris - Poet 