At night
There is no black and white.
Just the delight
Of you and me,
Converging
Merging,
Completely free
Of race
And place.
(https://lovelycurses.com/february-black-poetry-writing-month/).
At Night
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Tag Archives: poems
There was a young lady named Leigh
There was a young lady named Leigh
Who drank a good deal of tea.
She drank it every day
But I regret to say
That she never gave any to me!
Of Hills And Poets
Upper Norwood is extremely hilly, hence the title of this poem, “The Poet On The Hill”:
Deathbed
Did a shadow pass
Before the glass?
Why stare?
For there is no one there.
His head
Upon the deathbed
Breathes her scent.
Should he repent
And if so, of what?
The bed is hot
Where the cold girl lay.
He finds a number
(Not her’s,
The one who is descending the stairs)
But the girl he texted yesterday.
Should he slumber
Or encumber
The bedpost with another notch,
A further blotch
On the once virgin sheet?
There was a rich young man named More
There was a rich young man named More
Who was extremely fond of the poor.
When they asked him for money
He said “the weather is sunny
And I do adore the poor!”.
A Lover’s Hand
A hand
Can command
The ocean’s tide
To sweep aside
All convention
In waves that carry us away.
But it is my contention
(Despite what young lovers say)
That many a ship ends in grief
On a reef
That he and she
Are too blind to see
Judge Not
The maiden’s shapely bust
Engenders her lover’s lust
And the moralist’s disgust.
Lovers and moralists are soon dust
So let it be
For tis no concern of thee
Or me
And the wise agree
That there is no glee
In our final bed.
Eugenics
I knew
A man who
Was a progressive.
“The regressive
Tories” he hated.
He further stated
That “the unintelligent should not breed”.
Hitler’s seed
Runs through
Many a reactionary
And progressive too.
There was a young lady named Kate
There was a young lady named Kate
Who was invariably extremely late.
We sat in sorrow around her deathbed.
When the poor girl said
“You will have to wait and wait”.
Evensong
You were going to evensong.
I wanted to go along
But felt shy
To ask (I don’t know why).
An agnostic sitting in a pew
Next to you,
That wouldn’t do!
Though I know
That I wouldn’t be the first sceptic to attend
And pretend
Belief.
Our life here is brief
And religion softens grief
For the believer knows
That he goes
To a place
Where God’s grace
As sweet water does fall
On all.
In the singing of hymns
We forget our sins
And cough due to the dust
From ancient books,
While God looks
Down
With a frown
For he knows our lust …
Perhaps I will
Next time go along
To evensong
And perchance find a still
Place where God’s grace
Does fall
On all.
Though it may not be so
Nonetheless I shall go
Along
To evensong.
K Morris - Poet 