an extremely talented young lady named Joan
Composed a poem about the men she’s known.
Its well over 100 verses in length,
So one can not but admire the strength,
Of that active young lady named Joan.
When a masochist named Paul
Sprayed graffiti on a wall,
And a girl called Lou
Spanked him with her shoe,
He graffitied the other wall!
A linger
Of fingers,
(Of her’s, on his).
She has no ring.
Yet imagination is
A thing
Not to be believed.
Was he
Deceived
By fingers
That lingered
Maybe,
Longer, than was strictly
Necessary?
When a young lady named Claire
Said, “we should stop this affair!”,
I looked at her quizzically
And said, “please, remind me,
When did we start an affair!”.
When,
At a little after 5 am
I awake.
I think it late.
“Can you hear the birds?”,
You said.
Alone, in my bed,
I remember your words,
So much unsaid
By a girl who
I scarcely knew,
For a night is not long.
Yet, you took me far beyond
Sin, with the beauty of birdsong.
A most beautiful young dancer
Called me a wicked old chancer.
But when she received my present,
She suddenly turned quite pleasant.
And quickly I did romance her!
Entranced, he watched the dance,
As the girl
Did whirl,
Her feet
Kicking up the dust
Of poets, and dancers,
And other chancers,
Who you may meet
And pass, on the street
Without a second glance.
And the age-old dance
Goes on,
But the dust
Of those long gone
Is not disturbed
By a young woman’s dancing feet
Sinful delight
At night
As she, petite
And slim,
Slides in,
Next to him.
Then, beneath the sheet,
Her pleasure she does take,
For a while,
With a smile,
And partake
Of Chocolate cake.
When an elderly gentleman named Harris
Took a pleasure trip to Paris,
And approached all the young women,
And spoke to them of sinning,
They drummed him out of Paris!
She wrote in her spiral
Notebook. Her pen
Being men.
Some words go viral,
But in her spiral
Notebook, they go round
And round
Again
And again.
Or, maybe, ’tis broken men
Who take up their female pen
And write, again
And again.
‘Tis both women And men
Who employ the same,
Old pen.
And oft times leave behind,
A broken, mind
K Morris - Poet 