Words thrown out
Dance about
And float into the sky
Or, as lead balloons, die.
Words Thrown Out
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Tag Archives: kevin morris poetry
Graveyard
All around
I hear
The sound
Of birds in the graveyard near
To my home.
As I walk alone,
Through this place of bone,
A thought profound,
“Those underground
Can not hear”.
Thrown Away
In a vase you stay.
Soon you will be thrown away
In a bin.
How can I atone for the sin
Of removing you from nature’s embrace
To this urban place?
I sentimentalise its true
For you never knew
Nature’s embrace,
But doctored grew
In a place
Of glass
Where people pass
And say
“Customers will pay
Good money for that rose
But, I suppose
This other lot should be thrown away”.
‘Tis man who should count the cost
Of nature’s lost
Embrace
As we on keyboards clack
For we lack
The will
To stand still
And listen to the bird,
For the word
heard is “progress”, symbolised by
Doctored flowers, that in a vase, die.
Fallen
He can not afford
To pay for board
Or meals
For the bawd,
In heels
His life’s blood steals
As I Lay In My Bath Soaking
As I lay in my bath soaking.
I felt a most painful poking,
Which caused me to glare
At a comedian named Claire,
Who maintains she was only joking!
There Was A Young Man Named Paul
There was a young man named Paul
Who said, “all empires, one day, fall”.
My friend Jill
Lives on a hill,
But that’s nothing to do with Paul!
If You Dare
If you dare
To say
(in the politest possible way)
That “the people in their judgement err”,
I swear
That the person of narrow mind
Will find
Some ugly word to throw at you.
“Fascist” or “elitist” they will cry.
I know that it is untrue,
But ’tis easier to lie
(Though inwardly you die),
Than to speak the truth
And have the roof
Come down on you,
For speaking what is true.
Transit
A transitory smile
From a girl in a stripped pine
Bar. No need to wine and dine.
Butterflies stay awhile
Then flit
In transit.
The Flavour Of The Month Is Change
A flurry
Of skin against skin.
No need to curry
Favour, for the flavour
Of the month, soon will change.
“Call me”, she will say,
Then hurry
Away, to another flurry
Of skin against skin.
For there is no need to curry
Favour, for the flavour
Of the month is change.
On My Way Through The Churchyard At Midnight
On my way through the churchyard at midnight
I saw a young lady in white.
She sat on a post
Eating hot buttered toast,
And one grave it yawned empty that night.
K Morris - Poet 