On a September day
I kicked a stick away.
That branch once danced
In the soft spring air.
Now I, with no care
Kick it along the forest floor
For it will dance no more
And eventually decay
I smile today
But in time will find decay.
The sound of the ice cream van
Reminds me of my childhood.
I could rhyme of an innocent time
Before I became a man
When all was good.
But a monster got inside my head.
He is long dead.
Yet still I find in my mind
Him lurking somewhere there.
And I feel that childhood pain again.
Sometimes I am free
In my poetry.
Autumn has not yet come.
Yet the sun shines
On dry leaves.
I find in my mind
That Autumn has come
And my leaves
Have Turned to grey.
But I am still here
In this fading year
Though my May
Has long since run away.
We go through birth.
Then, like leaves
We feed the earth.
But before we fall
We enjoy the bird’s call.
Though none can outrun
The setting sun.
When a young lady known as Dawn
Went and swallowed acorns on the lawn,
And they said to her, “dear!
Trees will sprout from your ear!”,
She said, “pardon!”, and swallowed another acorn
The gorgeous and very talented Miss Unity
Is well known in the poetry community.
She reads her verse nude,
Which many find quite rude!
And then I go home with Unity …!
There once was a careless young guy
Who fell into some very sharp cacti.
He said with a squeal,
“These are the real deal!”.
Then sighed and died from those cacti!
She says that she used to see me
On her way to school.
As she pours my usual drink, I think
Of Larkin’s “The Old Fools”.
And I cast around for something to say
About my so ordinary day
As I sat reciting poetry at midnight
I spied a young lady dressed in white.
When I said, “are you a ghost!”,
She said, “no! I’m your host!
And your poetry woke me up at midnight!”
There once was a man from Bristol
Who was famous for his antique pistol.
When he gave a great cough
That old gun it went off!
There once was a man from Bristol …!
I know a young lady from France
Who likes to dance on a high branch.
When she’s in the mood
I’ve seen her dance nude –
But not on a very high branch!
K Morris - Poet 