It is frequently said
That one should not speak ill of the dead.
It is a notion most quaint
That in death, a devil becomes a saint,
Yet we cross ourselves and say
“He has passed away.
May god have mercy on his soul”.
While inwardly we smile
For well we know
Where his soul did go …
Thursday 28th September is National Poetry Day here in the United Kingdom. To find out about National Poetry Day, including the events taking place, please visit https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk/.
I do not care
For this must
And dust
That thickens
The air.
The scent sickens
Me,
Yet I must
Agree
(as is so often foretold),
That we end our days in dust
And mould.
He delighted
In unrequited love.
A kiss uninvited
(With no desire by a girl to return)
May go unspurned
Where advantage To her is concerned.
For a facsimile is easily made
And homage to Mammon paid.
—
Note: I am aware that the word “unspurned” does not appear in the dictionary. I have, none the less chosen to use it, and by so doing (possibly) coined a new word.
There was a young lady named Moll
Who lurked online as a troll.
She got arrested one day
By a policewoman called May,
Which the online community thought quite droll!
Sitting in this autum garden I
Hear aircraft from the nearby
Airport. The breeze
Rustles in the trees,
Then modernity’s din
Muscles in yet again,
As another plane
Flies by
Competing with the wind’s sigh.
Said Hooray Henry to Henrietta
“Did you receive my love letter?
It was written in latin and greek
For I can speak
Both as you can see.
I have a first class degree
From Oxford. Oh do say that you will join me on the Charwell
For who can tell
What may happen, as we punt along
Singing a boating song”.
Said Henrietta,
“I did receive your love letter.
I too can speak
Latin and greek.
But my dear
I fear
That I have been untrue
To you,
With the gamekeeper Foil.
He may be a hoary old man of toil,
But he’s a dab hand with the massage oil …
We are born
In naked innocence.
Soon, as man grows
He goes
To the expense of clothes,
As he is from his innocence torn.
We are obsessed
With dress.
A girl’s short skirt
Causes a man to flirt
And desire to Perceive
Eve
As she was in Paradise,
(But now in vice)
For tis impossible to recreate
Eden’s state.
Perchance the serpent thinks
As he drinks
From the fountain of love,
Of how he fell,
As star dust
From the sky above,
Into this heaven, this hell,
And now is bound
All around,
With what some call love, and others lust
As we walked
And talked
The breeze
Rustled in the trees.
Then, on the way back
A Union Jack
Flapped and I
Thought on how empire’s fires
Rise then die.
Money oils the wheels of love.
Hand in glove
They go,
But no
Tis not true love. Tis a pale imitation,
A desolation, an invitation
For mocking laughter.
But after
The mirth dies,
The mocker secretly sighs
Over a girls’s perfect thighs
As he curses a rich guys luck
And thinks “I shall forever be stuck
In this rut
Where it is easy to be judgmental,
While the unsentimental
Rich man can
Buy the eye
Of many a wench.
Money’s stench
Is foul in my nose
But who knows,
Had I the cash
What actions rash
I might take
For the sake
Of a girl’s passing blue eyes
And her empty thighs”.
K Morris - Poet 