I am good
Sometimes.
And lose myself in rhymes.
I am blood.
Love.
And in the end
I am words half heard
By readers and friends.
And gathering dust
On books
A Poet’s Life
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Tag Archives: kevin morris poet
When I Dated a Young Lady in Waiting
When I dated a young lady in waiting
Who said, “sir, are you fond of mating?”.
I said, “my dear Yvette!
We have only just met!”.
She said, “never keep a young lady waiting …!”
Sceptical Claire
When a sceptical young lady named Claire
Found a ghost sitting in her chair,
She said, “I must be drunk
As I’m imagining a ghostly monk!”.
And that ghost he glared at Claire!
Secrets
When a young lady named Miss Moon
Trusted me with all her secrets yesterday afternoon,
I told her about Lou
Who works in a zoo
And moonlights as a stripper on Saturday afternoons!
I Hear the Sound
I hear the sound
Of timeless windchimes
As workmen hammer away.
Sometimes the profound
Is hard to say
So poets rhyme
Of windchimes
In late August
For all this must
Pass away.
A Poet Named Cotton
There once was a poet named Cotton
Whose poetry has long since been forgotten.
I once met a pig
Who didn’t give a fig
For me or the poetry of Cotton!
Bill Who Lived on a High Hill
There once was a man named Bill
Who lived on a very high hill.
His young mistress Sally
Lived in a valley
And his wife she lived with Bill!
The Anarchic Wind
I am a plaything
In the arms
Of the whispering wind.
She has charms.
Her summer breeze teases
Bringing delight.
But those who fight
The wind
When she is wild
Will find themselves a helpless child
Locked tight in arms
That have lost all their charms
And will pray
For the ungovernable wind
To stay her anarchic play
And the summer breeze
To gently tease once more.
But put no store
In that wild fickle thing,
The eternal wind.
The Leaves Lie
The leaves lie thicker on the path
Than the last time I passed.
I can not count them.
But, like we men
All leaves fall
And rhymes
End
Intellectualise
Walking through the summer rain
I think of you with your philosopher’s brain.
Our conversation is always respectable
And almost always focuses on the purely intellectual.
Often I wish I could see
Behind your philosophy
And into your heart.
My poetry is part of me.
But my art
And all your philosophy
Are only part
Of you and me.
Is there more for me to see
Beyond your intellectuality?
Will I ever find the woman behind
Your clever chat
Of this and that?
Conversation runs dry
And I wonder why
I over intellectualise your opaque eyes
And what lies behind …
K Morris - Poet 