If imagination were a crime
And you could read between a rhyme,
How many poets would be flayed
For games played
In the confines
Of their minds?
But, no
That is not quite so,
For their words caper
On virgin paper.
And when
The pen
Scratches
The reader thinks he catches
A glimpse of the sin,
Within.
On entering my spacious bedroom
I saw a girl with a mushroom.
When I said, “is that fungi magic?”,
She said, “its so tragic!
And do you like my new perfume?”.
When a young lady named Lou
Said, “nothing is taboo to you!”,
I said, “I love your feet
But I wish you wouldn’t beat,
Me so hard with your shoe!”.
If I write a sad
Poem today
People will say
He is sad.
If I compose a glad
Poem today
They will, likewise
Say,
He is feeling glad.
But they
Can not see my eyes.
His passion grows.
She exposes.
The poet composes.
But, in his heart
He knows
That art
Is not a rose.
Pan plays on his pipe
To the delight
Of woodland nymphs.
Who have, long since
Ceased to see,
In his ageing pipe,
Beyond the delight
Of his poetry.
A young man named Hogg
Has a prolific poetry blog.
His verse is first rate,
But a well known critic called Kate,
Says that its written by Hogg’s dog!
I know a young lady named Lina,
And many fine gentlemen have seen her.
I wont go into all the detail,
As it would make you turn pale.
But she’s not as bad as Justina!
Whilst out shopping
I see girl’s shoes
And can not help but lose
Myself in a shocking
Thought,
Of stiletto shoes,
Bought,
By young women who,
At night,
Bring delight
With the loss of shoe
And stocking.
But I have shopping,
still to do …
When I said to a girl called Lou,
“Have you seen my shoe?”,
She said, “after a night of great passion
It is the new fashion,
For a girl to retain a gentleman’s shoe!”.
K Morris - Poet 