A philosophical young lady named Holly
Owns an old and interesting folly.
I’ve talked of philosophy
With pretty Miss Lee –
But now lets discuss Holly’s folly …
Philosophical Holly
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Desires
I have desired
The fire
And sought for sparks
In another’s heart.
I have made art
From lust and dust
And found fleeting charms
In no lover’s arms.
I have heard words
And known the lies.
But a girl’s thighs
Delight. And the night
Covers many a fall.
I lost my grace
Many years ago
And know
The sadness that hides behind
The painted face,
The silk and lace.
Yet we both smile
And play the game
For we all fall
In the end
Be we lovers.
Or a kind of friend.
Lou’s Irish Stew
I met a young lady named Lou
Who lay bathing in Irish Stew.
When I played on my flute
She said, “do you like beetroot?
And do join me in this stew!”
With the Dark
With the dark
And the light
In my heart
I make art.
I play a part.
The stage light
Illumines the night.
For a while
I smile
Then comes the dark.
Missing Dinner
There once was a terrible old sinner
Who ate all of my Christmas dinner!
I locked him away
Until New Year’s Day
And ignored his cries for his dinner!
Happy Christmas!
A very happy Christmas to you, my readers. I hope the festive period brings you joy and happiness.
Best wishes. Kevin
Closing
The clock ticks another year towards its close.
Winter’s clothes will soon replace autumn’s leaf-strewn face.
Spring lies well concealed in the wings
And summertime is a half remembered rhyme
In the ageing poet’s mind
Where everything repeats
And time defeats.
Until all as leaves fall.
Pantomime
She makes no confession
Of her profession
As out of her clothes she slips.
They joke that “it’s friends with benefits”.
The clock ticks
And Cinderela is gone.
But no shoe is left behind
For a prince to find.
There is no Fairy Godmother.
Yet girls discover
A lover of a kind
In this passing pantomime
Lou Who Got Stuck in Glue
I know a young lady named Lou
Who got stuck in a pot of glue.
When I said, “you’re a snob!”
She called me a yob!
She’s always been stuck up has Lou!
Secret Desires
Dreams may express our secret desires.
Those hidden fires
From which many recoil
When awake.
Yet, some partake
And even pour oil
On their dreams.
Their fantasy burns
And turns into reality.
Ere banality returns
And secret shame burns.
K Morris - Poet 