Poet Josephine Corcoran reminds us that on 1 November Places of Poetry will become a read only site. Up until 1 November, you have the opportunity to pin a poem to the Places of Poetry map. You can find Josephine’s post here, https://josephinecorcoran.org/2019/10/27/last-few-days-to-pin-a-poem-to-the-places-of-poetry-map/.
You can find my poem “The Poet On The Hill” on Places of Poetry here, https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/poem/23368/.
Kevin
As someone who was born in the city of Liverpool, I was delighted to learn that Liverpool’s Allerton Oak has been crowned Tree of the Year.
The BBC reports that the tree predates the Norman Conquest of 1066, and legend has it that a medieval court was held under it’s spreading branches. You can read the BBC article here, https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-merseyside-50141031.
I am a lover of all trees and, in particular oaks. You can find my poem “The Girl and the Oak” here, https://kmorrispoet.com/2016/01/03/the-girl-and-the-oak/.
A young man dressed in scruffy old jeans
Wishing to marry a lady of great means,
Dated lots of young women
And indulged in some sinning,
But he’s still in those scruffy old jeans!
There once was a poet named Spink
Who wrote love poems in invisible ink
To young women of pleasure
Until his dear wife Heather
Heated up that invisible ink of Spink!
(Messages written in invisible ink can be read either by heating up the paper or setting it on fire).
When a young lady named Lou
Said, “have you seen my shoe?”,
I replied, “tut tut,
A goat called Butt
Has eaten up your shoe Lou!”.
Is the young woman who knocks on the door
At just gone midnight
In heels, and oh so
Short dress, (and we all know what she is there for),
A slave
Even if she be paid?
And what of the lady who cleans the floor?
The well paid “whore”
Receives much more.
If both be paid,
Who then is the slave?
The midnight visitor may
Have a pimp to pay
But ’tis by no
Means always so.
Yet, if the man has no idea
Whether she comes out of fear
Is he a slave master
Complicit in a disaster?
But what of the cleaner brutalised by a boyfriend
Who all her money does spend
On drink,
Although she be paid
Do you not think
That she also is a slave?
Last night
I went to bed with Emily Brontë.
What can a modest man say?
We scaled passions great heights,
And, in the midst of our delight
She lost her tights.
Then, on my way
Back over the moor
I saw
Nelly Dean
Who said, with a gleam
In her eye
“Thrushcross Grange is nigh.
Will you come back with me
For tea?”.
But I made reply,
“No, not I
For, if you take a look
None of this is in Emily’s book …!”.
When a young man named Dave
Tripped over a freshly dug grave,
A corpse lying within
Said, with a grin,
“Its not your time yet Dave!”.
Walking home
Alone
At night
I see the passing street light.
I find
Neither fear nor delight
In the churchyard just
Left behind,
Merely dust
And fallen leaves.
When an ambitious young journalist named Nell
Said, “I have a story to tell,
But it isn’t true.
Does that bother you?”,
Her editor said, “will it sell, Nell?”.
K Morris - Poet 