The tree
By the graveyard plot
Has stood, impassively
For years.
Many tears
Have been shed
Over the dead.
This old tree
Will outlast me.
Yet, it to must fall
For the churchyard plot
Calls us all
To dust
All to Dust
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Dom
Have you heard of a dominatrix named Nicks
Who is known for her love of sticks?
If you ask how I know,
I heard it from Vicar Joe;
Who is known for his love of sticks …
Cold Birds
Standing in the cold park
I heard the birds
Sing in early January.
I will hear them in spring.
And think I see
Cold birds.
Yet I know that the winter
Lives in me
And poets sing
Of what is true.
Dodgy
Whilst browsing a dodgy website
I encountered a young lady named White.
She came round to mine
And after much wine
I kissed that young lady good night …
Generation Z
I am dating a young lady from Gen Z
Who says that she is in love with me!
She calls me her honey
And thinks I have money.
So don’t tell her the truth about me …
A Memory
You padded around my flat
Silent as a cat.
I strain
To remember your name.
Then it comes back.
And I recall
You wanted something else
And I, wanted you,
And fell from grace.
A few years later, you called my name
In the street
Were intimate strangers
By mischance meet.
You were no old flame.
Yet the memory remains
Of a girl, perhaps half there.
And your friend in the street
Who knew it was true
But claimed a mistake
Had occurred.
Yet, I knew you –
A sleek black cat
Who lost her fur
In a gentleman’s flat.
Lethe
One day
I will cross the Styx
And drink of Lethe.
All our memories must decay.
But some succumb
To Lethe
Before they make their way
Over the Styx.
We grieve
For those who are here
Yet gone away.
And pray
That when we leave
We may
Recognise Charron.
Yet some who forget
Before they cross
Know not what
They have lost
More wine
When a young lady drinking my wine
Said, “your rhyme it is truly divine!”
I said to her, “miss,
Do give me a kiss!”
She said, “first give me more wine!”
The Poetic Old Goat
There once was a poetic old goat
Who went and swallowed a coat.
He said, “that was delicious!”
But the effects were pernicious,
As a button stuck in his throat!
Identity
I heard my entry phone go.
I said, “hello?”
He said, “Its Tesco”.
I replied, “its not me!”
After, I thought I ought
To have said, “its not for me”.
For I am, of course “I” or “me”.
But, you see
I was not thinking of my identity
At the time,
For my mind
Was caught up in rhyme!
K Morris - Poet 