There was a young man called Hogg
Who kept a very large dog.
When people asked “does it bite?”
He replied “he might,
But not if your name it is Hogg!”
—
There was a young man called Hogg
Who kept a very large dog.
They went out in the pitch black
And never came back.
I surmise they got lost in a bog.
—
There was a young man called Hogg
Who kept a very large dog.
They went out one night
And got quite a fright
From the crocodile disguised as a log …!
There was a young poet called Morris
Who laid claim to The Odes of Horace.
When they put him on trial
He said “there can be no denial
That my real name, it is Horace!”
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.
There was a young man called Adolf
Who was very fond of his golf.
On his wedding day
He stayed away
And played with his golfing partner Rolfe!
I dreamed that I was dead.
There was no dread,
Merely a desire
To cross the barbed wire
And escape something or somewhere,
Perhaps despair.
Pressing my hand against the barbed wire, I felt no pain.
No guards came.
I did not cross, for I new I should find
That which I had left behind
– A man locked in his own mind.
A minor poet, of little note,
Once a poem wrote.
I am sad to say,
That self-same day
His verse was eaten by a goat.
the man of letters said, in a most melancholy tone
“would that you had left my verse alone
O most vile goat
And fed
Instead
Upon my coat”.
I heard an angel sigh
And ask “why oh why
Must I
Fly
In Azure sky.
I spy
A man below
And I would go
Amaying,
But my conscience is asaying
Angels belong up here.
‘Yet ‘tis drear
To see one so handsome and so near!
I fear
That I shall fall
And my angel dust
Shall turn to gall”.
A handsome man, looking upwards, did softly say,
“The day
Is beautiful. Pray
Float down
In your gossamer gown
From that painted sky.
Ney do not resist or frown.
You and I
May our sorrows drown
In yonder pub, for the audience refused to pay,
To see our most excellent play …!”
The estate agent’s lights fade.
I wander home,
Thinking on other temporary things.
On 17 January, I received the following comment/question in response to my limerick “There was a young lady called Lou”:
“Do these like, just pop into your mind; or do you have a scrapbook full of them?” (https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/17/there-was-a-young-lady-called-lou/#comment-49477).
I replied as follows:
“Thank you for your comment. I thought this one up while eating boiled egg on toast and drinking Earl Grey tea this morning! Many of my poems come to me while walking my dog. Being blind I don’t carry a notebook. I have never learned to write by hand. I do, however touch type and write my poems using a standard Windows laptop equipped with Job Access with Speech or JAWS (software which converts text into speech and braille relaying the screen’s contents to me). I write my poems either at home or in my lunch hour in the office”, (https://newauthoronline.com/2017/01/17/there-was-a-young-lady-called-lou/#comment-49478).
In light of the above exchange, I thought it would be helpful for me to expand on how my poems come to me.
As I said in response to Daria’s question, “There was a young Lady called Lou” popped into my mind as I was enjoying egg on toast with a piping hot cup of Earl Grey, while other poems come to me as I walk my guide dog Trigger. It is frequently remarked that exercise is good for both the mental and the physical self. I would certainly endorse this view as a brisk walk often leads to the composition of a poem. I can not, however swear that all poems appear on paper exactly as they originally churned around my mind. My memory is good but far from being photographic in nature.
At other times I sit in front of my laptop pleading with my muse to take pity on me and whisper words of inspiration:
She is a fickle mistress who oft times does tease
And, on occasions doth please
The poet in search of inspiration
With which to wow the nation.
To my consternation
She does come and go
But, I know
‘Twas always so
And ‘twill remain
Until my life drains away
Or I, in senility, languish one day.
Kevin
K Morris - Poet 