As I drink my hot curry soup
Melancholy love songs loop.
The same thoughts go round and round
Of waitresses who have come and gone.
Sometimes my thoughts are profound.
At other times I tempt with rhymes
A waitress who likes poetry.
But I have found
My verse can not undress a waitress
For my brief rhyme
Is out of time
And I am growing old.
So I drink my hot curry soup
As the music loops around.
And then go home alone.
When a young lady in a short frock
Decided to swing from a very old clock,
The clock’s owner, known as Dan,
Said, “I’m a red blooded man,
But I’m worried you will break that clock!”.
In morning time
I write a rhyme
Before the riot
Of the coming day
Takes my muse away.
I am clay
And hot lust.
But ere I am dust
I have words to say.
Perhaps a brief rhyme of mine
Of women and wine
And fleeting time may live on
When I am gone.
We all go from the gloom
Of the womb
To the gloom of the tomb.
But take delight
In sunlight, ere we go.
I have stood
And walked
Through the wood
And thought
On nymphs who bring delight
In woods
To passersby such as I.
I have sought for Aphrodite
Amidst the flowering tree
And have heard the birds
Sing in hopeful spring.
But now Autumn has come
And no Aphrodite
Sings to me.
A young lady who calls herself Honey
Likes to dress as the Easter bunny.
After food and wine
We crossed that line –
Then that bunny she stole my money!
Happy Easter to all of my readers!
How soon the scent
Of blossom is spent
In the rain.
These little flowers
No not hours,
While I pass by
In unending rain.
I have taken delight
In Waitresses at night
And in the morning find
The same cold rain
And thoughts of the waitress
I so lovingly undressed
In my so fertile mind.
Some men take their pleasure
Amidst the sweet heather
With a pretty young lass.
But all grass
Turns to hay
And the poor poet’s lay
Must end in dust.
When I met a philosopher of this nation
Who said, “we’re all living in a simulation”.
I gave him a big kick
And whacked him with a stick,
Which was fine as we’re in a simulation!
You took your shoes
And left me alone in my flat.
Your right to choose,
I can’t argue against that.
Fantasies oft run riot
In a man’s fevered head.
Better to stay quiet,
For such things can not be unsaid.
K Morris - Poet 