I could call
On 2 young graces.
Silks and laces
So easily fall away.
I find charms
In a girl’s arms.
But they go with day
And my love of solitude
May love exclude.
I am glad
For I have
A kind of friend.
But all our graces
Must end
In the hard churchyard
For below
There is no pretend.
There once was a poetical old monk
Who composed a poem about his skunk.
A pretty young nun
Said, “that was fun”.
And then they spoke of that skunk.
When a young lady waving a gun
Said, “are you up for some fun!”.
Having learned not to trifle
With a girl’s big rifle,
Of course I agreed to some fun …!
I have demanded pleasure
And chosen not to understand
That the pursuit of pleasure
Would leave me stranded
In the desert sand.
I can command
Sweet painted lips
To tease and kiss.
But the desolate sand
Obeys no command.
Whilst visiting a place known as Stonehenge
I met a young lady from Penge.
She was dressed as a Druid
And her identity was somewhat fluid,
And she said she came from Penge …
On this dull day
No girls pass
Before my bedroom glass.
On other days
It has reflected back
The black
And white
Who have relieved
My lonely night.
Sometimes when they leave
I grieve
For the cost
Of lost
Souls. and love
That is not love.
Butterflies fly away.
But no, they stay
Caught in rhymes
Though they know it not.
There was an old lady of Penge
Who advertised her garden rockery as Stonehenge.
Many rich Americans came there
And one known as Claire
Purchased that rockery and all of Penge!
All men fall
But some men
Deny it is so.
But could one go
Into the mind
Of all men
One would find
No angels here below.
I have seen Heaven and Hell
And I know well
That the path to both
Oft runs parallel.
On an autumn day
I heard the sound
Of children at play.
My brown
Has gone grey.
Leaves fall
And the ground
Takes all
Our leaves away.
At night
I rhyme
Of scattered leaves
And fleeting time.
K Morris - Poet 