A young lady whose name is Claire
Is engaged in a most sordid affair,
Whilst a married man called Ted
Climbs into a large double bed,
But that’s nothing to do with Claire!
A Young Lady Whose Name Is Claire
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An 18-year-old girl’s hair
Unaware as her hair
Brushes against my hand.
Pleasure rushes.
Then, again.
I maintain
My composure.
For a disclosure
Would embarrass both me and her.
And, after all its only her hair
That touches
My hand.
Middle-age clutches
At what can not be
For, you see
The truth
Is that age can not command
A youth
Who is unaware
Of the power of her hair
To excite delight
In a middle-aged man’s heart,
And find expression in art.
Tomorrow and Today
Time is a human concept
Not always shown due respect
By we who put off until tomorrow
That which we should do today.
Then, when tomorrow
Comes we say
“I shall do that on another day”,
While old Father Time
Smiles his enigmatic smile
And whispers, “you borrow
Tomorrow and today”.
And we, heeding not the clock
Continue to play
Our lives away.
When A Young Lady Whose Name Is Claire
When a young lady whose name is Claire
Said, “my friend you should take very great care,
As there are lots of beautiful young women
Who are into nothing but decadence and sinning”,
I replied, “where can I find them, Claire?”
In The Fog Of Liquor
In the fog of liquor
Desire grows
And the heart beats quicker.
‘Tis bliss
To kiss
But the wise one knows
That those
Soft lips
At which he sips
Are as fleeting as the rose
Which in summer grows.
So we let go
In lust
While the dust
Under the bed
Is dead
Skin, and the summer rose
Grows brown
And each petal
Does settle
On the ground
And becomes as one
With flowers long since gone.
My poem ‘The Poet on The Hill’ is on ‘Place of Poetry’.
My Dear Friend, Whose Name Is Miss Kind
My dear friend, whose name is Miss Kind
Said, “those silk ropes, they tightly do bind,
But its totally consensual
And really quite commonsensical,
As you help me, my friend, to unwind . . .
A Young Man Named Gus
A young man named Gus
Created a most terrible fuss
When his girlfriend Pearl
Gave me a twirl,
On the number 7 bus!
Lesbos
In his bedroom
Perfume hangs
In the air.
She dreams not of he,
But of sea
And the cost
Of a trip from Lesbos
Not My Type
I swear
That she
Was not my type,
Yet that night
Something other than empathy
Did stir
In me.
Maybe ’twas merely
Her body’s scent . . .
I thought her vulgar,
A judgement perhaps unfair,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.
An animal attraction maybe
To her,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.
K Morris - Poet 