Alone,
At home,
I hear the moan
Of someone up above
Making love.
Or is it just,
Lust?
My present desire
Is to write.
For which I require
Quiet. But, sometimes at night
I hear, up above
A couple making love,
Or is it just,
Lust?
He met
A girl with no name
Who said, “I am Yvette.
Let us not talk of sorrow
But tomorrow
You may regret”.
So he took his pleasure
With Yvette or Heather,
And there was delight
For him that night
And sorrow
On the morrow.
He will borrow
From the bank, again
To play
With the girl with no name,
Who will not stay,
But she is not to blame.
The girl with no name
Has an ancient profession
Which, out of discretion
I shall not name.
Russian roulette must end in shame,
But she is not to blame.
Underneath,
Nakedness.
Desired.
Riotous imaginings in his head.
Every man has his fantasy.
She, sliding out of clothes.
Slowly exposing an untried rose
August has long since ceased to be.
Upon the forest floor,
The oak and Chestnut has shed its store,
Unceremoniously, of conker and acorn.
Mulch for the lawn,
Now leaves feed the ground.
Sex on legs.
Thoughts of beds
Invade his head.
Lust will drive him insane,
Each interviewee, different but, somehow all the same.
“Those shoes, why did she choose
To wear them?
Only to please men?”,
Still, the stiletto shoe, may clinch the interview.
Poetry maybe, for better or worse,
Of the kind we call free verse.
Each muse does her poet choose,
Though some may say, that I lie.
Evening, your dress
Short. Your bought
Caress
Offered only to
Rich men when
They pay for you.
Her dress
Did cling
To her in springtime,
Which caused
The poet passing by
To pause,
And compose
A rhyme
To fleeting time.
But do you suppose
That he did not sigh,
And, in his secret heart
Ponder on more than art. ?
Today I passed by
The bush, so green
In the light rain.
‘Tis a thing so often seen
By me,
This tree.
Yet I returned again
And touched both leaf and tree,
For the seas will still roar
Though I shall be,
No more
A young man named Hogg
Owns a very bad dog.
It stole the stocking
Of poor miss Hocking,
And Hogg he stole her clog!
—
A young lady dressed in pink
Gave me a knowing wink
And said to me, “come and see
What lies behind that fine old oaktree”,
And her hair it had a kink.
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K Morris - Poet 