A room bare
Save for an ancient armchair
Where old newspapers encircle
That which was once there.
—
The above poem was inspired by a true story, related to me by my colleague Chris.
Armchair
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Category Archives: musings
Attraction
Men see
A short skirt
And, attracted by legs
Think of beds
And flirt.
And me,
Being blind
What do I find
To attract
And distract
In she?
Is it personality,
Or am I
Just a regular guy,
Your average, he?
I Have No Wish To Leave These Dark Trees
I have no wish to leave
These dark trees.
I drink
The fresh summer air.
For a moment forget my care
And think
On Frost’s poetry,
That o’re shadows me
When A Literary Critic Named Lee
When a literary critic named Lee
Came round to mine for tea,
I offered him some cake,
Which he failed to take,
And then he criticised my tea!
Larkin Said We Think On Death
Larkin said we think
On death when drink
And friends are not around,
As there is nothing To distract
Us from the profound
Truth that you and I
Will die.
As I sit in this pub, alone
Drinking coffee
I reach for my phone
But Larkin stops me
Dead, and, with a clear head
I see
The truth the poet did see.
Blind Publican
Last night, I had a dream in which I had agreed to work in my local pub. Being blind, this would, no doubt have been a very interesting experience for me and the customers of that esteemed establishment.
My peculiar dream led to the composition of the below rhyme.
—
When a blind man whose name is Grub
Got a job in his local pub,
Those wanting brandy
Got lemonade shandy,
But the grub, it was really quite good!
Plastic
In a dream I saw
Plastic high-heels on the floor
Of a room who’s door
Stood half-open.
Something must have been spoken
For I was invited, and recall
The monotonous rise and fall,
Going nowhere
With her,
And those cheap
Plastic shoes, which keep
Me from sleep.
A Girl In A Dress Of Red
A girl in a dress
Of red
I dreamed in bed.
And I confess
That she
Has stayed with me.
Red may scream
Danger ahead,
But ’twas merely
A dream,
Though she
Has stayed with me.
Progress
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
Nymphs On Pedestals
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
K Morris - Poet 