What is a double bed?
A place where the dread
Of what comes after this brief life
Is momentarily lost
In the arms of mistress or wife.
What is a double bed?
A place where the lone head
Sleeps
And sometimes weeps.
What is a bed?
A place of joy and pain,
Where we return again and again
Until we are slain
By the final sleep.
When young
Caution he flung
Away,
For he knew from the start,
In the secret recesses of his heart
They would not stay,
(The girls out for fun,
After whom he did run).
There is no disgrace
In the chase
He thought
But why court
When a sort
Of love is so easily bought?
They came and went.
His heart was rent
As money he spent
On an attachment
To a kind of detachment
Which led …
Now in old age
He does uselessly rage
At the phantoms who dance
In a parrady of romance
Upon the stage
Of his own creation.
His anticipation Has turned to dust
Aleviated only by occasional flowerings of lust.
A passionate young man named Seb
Decided to trawl the web.
There he met
A girl called Yvette.
She said “I love you my darling honey.
Please send me some money
So we can be together,
Forever and ever”.
Seb dispatched her funds via Western Union
As he longed for a communion,
Holy or otherwise.
But, to his surprise
He has still not met
His true love, Yvette …
Stillettos encase neat
Little feet.
Bare
Perfectly toned legs invite
And excite.
Mutual delight
They may find,
To temporarily bind
Them together, but does he care
To probe what is in there?
No, not that obvious place,
The space
Where many a man will
Thrill,
Spill
Then go.
No, I mean her brain
That does contain
The whole girl.
The Whirl
Of loves, thoughts and emotion,
The vast ocean
Of her soul.
A beautiful bird came to a river most still.
She dipped her bill
And a mighty torrent took river and bird
To a place
Beyond any word
From a poet heard,
Where lovers embrace.
There was a young man called Neil
Who’s love for a girl was passionate and real.
She said, “Beware,
For people stare
And my heart it is made of steel”!
Love and death are the poet’s great obsession.
Wile the former session
May be long or brief,
‘Tis certain, the performance, once over, ends in grief.
You lay on my book.
Perhaps you mistook
It for a bone
And discovering your mistake, left it alone!
You creased it’s pages.
Oh the ages
I took
To write that book!
You lay on my book
But look
I have many more,
And ‘twas entirely my fault for
I should not have left it on the floor!
Dogs have such short lives
While the poet’s work survives
Long after master and friend
Have come to their end.
You lay on my book,
My faithful old mutt.
A brief interlude
Of smooth bare arms
And female charms.
This verse crude
Must conclude
In lust
And dust.
K Morris - Poet 