Sun cream.
A perfect dream
Of skin
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There Was A Young Man Called Grant
There was a young man called Grant
Who wished a tree to plant.
His uncle’s wife stood far too near
And, I fear
That he accidentally planted his aunt!
Pan
They say
That nymphs play
In the ancient wood.
Yet as I stood
There yesterday,
No nymphs did play.
Waking this morning
I sensed a warning
In rock.
Mysteries may unlock
As Pan pipes play,
But the nymphs they
Will not stay
Tell the truth and shame the devil
“Tell the truth and shame the devil” the people said.
So he told it straight
And hate
Descended upon his head.
So he told a lie
And said “the sky
Is always blue”.
The people clapped, although they in their hearts knew
That it really wasn’t true.
There Was A Young Chap Called Dan
There was a young chap called Dan
Who met a girl with a fake tan.
To his surprise
She batted her eyes,
And introduced herself as Ann!
There Was A Young Poet Called More
There was a young poet called More
Who wrote using metaphor.
His wife Jane
Did complain
That his poems made her snore!
Who is the I in I?
On Tuesday evening (23 May), I had dinner with 2 old friends. During the course of our conversation my friend, Jeff asked “Who is the I in I”? My response was that we are composed of a mix of genetic data inherited from our parents, environmental influences and the culture we absorb from a young age. All of these factors, I said, help to determine who the I in I is.
The snippet of conversation related above, reminded me of my poem “Genes” which is reproduced below:
“Are we just our genes
Means
To a meaningless conclusion,
A confusion of arms, legs and bed?
The head
Is often overruled
By the fool
Lust.
Into eternity we thrust
Desperately hoping to leave one of our kind
Behind
Ere our dalliance ends in dust”.
(“Genes” can be found in my collection of poetry, “Refractions”, which is available, as a Kindle download in the Amazon Kindle store).
Recollection
You left your heels behind.
It is no particular bind
For you
To lose them, its true,
But what am I to do
With a lady’s shoe?
I remember your voice
(Redolent of private school).
I played the fool
(It was my choice).
You left your shoes under the bed.
Few words where said.
There was no love to lose
As a thing never started
Leaves no one broken hearted.
Enough said.
Stillettoed Feet
Many a man’s goal
Is derailed by the beat
Of stillettoed feet
That tear a hole
In his suffering soul.
Cyborg
When skin and bone are gone
The cyborg continues on,
But is it you or I?
And can a cyborg die?
K Morris - Poet 