There was a young libertine called Mike
Who said “I can do as I like”.
He met an innocent girl named Dawn
Who’s father did warn
“I will end your life with this spike!”
There Was A Young Libertine Called Mike
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Tag Archives: k morris poet
Sterile
The birds
Say more than my words
About this sterile
World which the virile
Rain is making wet.
We forget
That we are part of the whole
And lose our soul
In the daily grind.
Sometimes we find
Rain drops falling,
Calling
To a mind
Which can perhaps reach beyond the pap
Of the photogenic TV personality, who has nothing to say.
But she does our will to live sap
In such a pretty way
Running
As a poet, there is no doubt in my mind that I have a tendency to over intellectualise. This often entails looking on the dark side of life. The beauty of existence is, for me tempered by the knowledge that our time here is brief. As I put it in my poem, “Passing”:
“The sun comes and goes on a cold Autumn day
And I think on fun and how quickly it passeth away.
The flower that bloomed
Is soon entombed,
Or if it blooms still
A rill
Of tears
Marks it’s all too tender years”.
None the less life is for living. I love walking in the great outdoors and have recently taken to running with colleagues during my lunch hour through St James’s Park in central London.
We writers have a tendency to live too much in the mind. “I think, therefore I am” is undoubtedly true, for to think makes us human. However the intellectual side of life needs to be balanced by physical activity.
While running one is acutely conscious of the animal nature of man. The pleasure of stretching one’s legs and enjoying the purely physical side of existence is one which I wholeheartedly recommend.
While there is conversation with my running partner, which enhances the pleasure of the activity, I do, none the less leave the intellectual aspect of my nature behind when exercising and lose myself in the physicality of the experience.
What Writers Really Do When They Write
Have I Heard Of You?
“Have I heard of you?” she said.
I shook my head
And made reply
With an audible sigh,
“No for I am not yet dead.
But perhaps a paragraph or two
When I am through,
You will peruse
Before passing on to other news
About some celebrity or other, who has fallen from grace
And after whom our moral guardians chase.
Heaven forbid that I should make page three
For better models than me
Have appeared there,
And I would hate to upstage busty Claire
For we are both art
Of a kind.
Beauty resides in the mind of the beholder,
Take your pick, a girl’s bare shoulder
Or a writer’s heart.
—
1. “Page 3 is a colloquial term for a feature formerly included in the British tabloid newspaper The Sun.
The phrase originates with the publication of a large photograph of a topless, bare-breasted female glamour model who was usually shown on the print edition’s third page.
The feature first appeared in the newspaper on 17 November 1970 and on the official Page 3 website since June 1999, where it still continues.
The terms “Page 3” and “Page Three” are registered trademarks of News UK, parent company of The Sun, although the feature has been imitated in Britain’s other ‘red top’ tabloids”
(https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Page_3).
2. The “Claire” in the above poem, is purely ficticious and any resemblance to anyone either living or dead is purely coincidental.
There Was A Young Man Called Hogg
There was a young man called Hogg
Who liked to dress as a dog.
When people looked askance
He asked “could you, by any chance
Kindly throw me that log!”
Hatters and Hares
As day follows day
Inexarably the century ebbs away.
It has already reached seventeen.
Things not yet seen
Glimmer in a dream
Or a nightmare
Where
The mad Hatter and March Hare
Offer to answer Alice’s every prayer.
On the edge of wonderland
We stand.
But beware
The Hatter and the Hare
Who sit at a table
Offering tea which they are unable
To supply,
For this thing called progress is a wapping lie.
Why the Budds Are Sticky In Springtime
As a small boy, I remember my grandfather telling me the below story, as to how the buds come to be sticky in springtime. I always assumed that he took the story from a collection of fairytales. However I have searched high and low and it would appear that he invented the tale to entertain me. However, if anyone does know the origin of the tale please do leave a comment. (I don’t remember the tale word for word so have used poetic license when retelling it).
—
In spring, a group of naughty gnomes (all unseen)
Did toadstools paint with glue
In order to catch the fairy queen.
‘Tis true
For my grandfather told me how the queen stuck fast
And, at last,
On her escape, she did say
To the gnomes “go your way
For I pardon your crime.
But, come springtime
You
Must paint the budds with your pots of glue.
Every year mind,
Or you shall find
That I am not so kind!”
So every year
Out of fear
Of what the fairy queen would do
Where they to forget,
The gnomes paint the budds with glue
(they are busy yet)!
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Kevin
There Was A Young Man Called Blair
There was a young man called Blair
Who went hunting for a bear.
In forest green
That beast unseen
Made a lunch of Blair
