They say there’s a wicked old rake
Who goes by the name of Lake.
But he’s also known as Kevin
And he’ll never get to heaven –
I think there must be some mistake!
They Say there’s a Wicked Old Rake
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Some Thoughts on Ernest Dowson
Often I think
On a fine poet who rhymed
Of women and wine
And who died of excess drink
At just 32.
All his party time
And his lust
Hid fear of dust.
Now I find in his rhyme
A great pleasure
In my leisure time.
But I have more than rhyme
To fill time.
Wild Flowers Bloomed Nearby
Wild flowers bloomed nearby
As I pondered on why
Shoes for petite feet,
And t-shirt where left
Bereft, behind,
In the wood.
For love
Of my rhyme?
Naughty Miss Harris
When I went with that naughty Miss Harris
For a dirty weekend to that beautiful Paris,
Her and Miss Honey
Stole all my money.
Dear reader, please send some money to Paris!
When the Mirror Fell
When the mirror fell
I thought not
Of the Lady of Shalott,
Although I know
The rhyme quite well.
Noone got cut.
You mentioned bad luck.
And I have not forgot
The unfortunate Shalott.
But believe it not.
I have Heard Nymphs are Sometimes Found
I have heard nymphs are sometimes found
In the fragrant wood.
It would be good to lie down
On the leafy ground
And take delight in Aphrodite.
But no, the wood
Is full of deep mud
And poor Miss Aphrodite
Would spoil yet another nightie!
A Poem from “Leaving and Other Poems”
We maintain
The urbane
And are witty
In the city.
But those who hark
To the fox’s bark
In the suburban dark
Find the urbane
Hard to maintain
And their wit
Begins to slip.
(Note: the above poem appears in my collection “Leaving and Other Poems”, which is available in Kindle and paperback from Amazon https://www.amazon.co.uk/Leaving-other-poems-Kevin-Morris/dp/B09R3HR9KG).
An Act of Genorosity
When a young lady known as Miss Lee
Said, “I know that you don’t like me!”.
And I said, “you are nice,
But I have never liked vice!”,
She said, “what if I wave the fee …!
An Act of genorosity
I Love the Wood
I long for the wet woods
Where the rainy breeze
Is full of flowers and leaves
And the damp earth
Speaks of death and rebirth.
I love the wood
When birds sing after rain.
I will surely die,
And Mother Nature will remain.
But we are forever part
Of nature’s great heart.
Her vital cycle of birth,
Death and good earth.
K Morris - Poet 