Category Archives: poems

A Wicked Rumour

I know a pretty young perfumer
Who is spreading a wicked rumour,
About me and her,
And gorgeous Miss Claire.
How sad its just a rumour …!

The Tick Tock of the Clock

The tick tock
Of the clock
Says we must
Turn to dust.

And girl’s heels clip clop
In time with the clock.
And Time’s hands measure
Our pain and pleasure.

Revising my Selected Poems

In 2019 I published my Selected Poems, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/. Since 2019 I have composed many other poems, some of which are included in book form, whilst others exist solely on this blog.

I have been thinking for some time about producing a revised and expanded second edition of my Selected Poems. I intend to begin work on this project in the near future.

As part of producing a second edition of my Selected Poems, I would be interested to hear from any of my readers. If you have a poem of mine that you believe should be included do please get in touch either by commenting below, or via email to kmorrispoet@gmail.com.

I can not guarantee to take on board all suggestions, but all comments received will be read, acknowledged and considered.

When a Young Lady Who Comes from Dover

When a young lady who comes from Dover
Said, “I want you to bend right over”,
A man named Frank
Said, “do you spank?”,
She said, “just pick up my dropped pullover!”.

When a Young Lady Playing at Dice

When a young lady playing at dice
Said, “do join me in my vice!”,
I said, “my dear Rose,
You are wearing no clothes!
Which is distracting me from my dice!”.

If I Won the Lottery

If I won the lottery
No doubt I would find,
At the age of 53,
Young women chasing me,
For my great mind
And my fine poetry.

And I would enjoy the charms
Of many a young woman’s arms.
But, strange to say
When all my pay
Had gone away, they would say,
“We have no interest in thee,
And your poor poetry …!”.

The Windblown Tree

I find
This wind
Does bring
To mind
The passing of everything.

The tide
Of lust
Does rise
Then go.
I know
That I am dust.

The windblown trees
Accept the breeze
And entrance
In dance
Of pleasure
In summer weather.
As do we.

Gwen’s Clever Old Hen

There was a young lady named Gwen
Who owned a most clever old hen.
It’s name was White,
And it could write,
As it had swallowed Gwen’s fountain pen!