Each text
Would the bishop vex
Where he to know
So
Let us draw a discreet veil
Over his daughter’s conversation
Lest he turn pale
And the congregation
Find something other than hymns
To sing. Yet I think
That I see the devil wink.
I hear him whisper low
“You know
The bishop also
Has his sins …”.
I have no experience of this course. It does, however sound interesting and its free, https://josephinecorcoran.org/2018/05/29/how-to-make-a-poem-free-online-course/
“What is love?” I asked the poet of romance.
“Tis a rapturous dance
Wherein lovers lose countless hours
In verdant bowers
And flowers
Forever bloom”.
“What is love?” I asked the advertising executive in his suit of gray.
“Tis money you pay
On Valentines Day
For the overpriced chocolates I
Want lovers to buy”.
“What is love?” I asked the scientist in his white coat.
“Tis a chemical reaction in the brain
That causes pleasure and pain,
From which few can refrain”.
“What is love?” I asked the working girl.
“Tis a pearl
I once had but then did sell
As all men know well”.
“What is love?”
I asked the rake.
He refered me to the girl above
But could no further answer make.
A single flower on a cacti
I thought dead. Should I toil
In barren soil
For hope? Yet there is that flower
To brighten this dull hour
Of shower
And thunder.
The wonder
Of existence,
The persistence
Against all odds
In sods
I thought sterile.
On my window ledge
On the edge
Of rebirth
From seeming barren turf
My cacti
Teters and I
Recall how, only yesterday,
I was on the point of throwing it away.
Some men collect metaphors,
Others a girl’s stiletto
(some literally so).
Some collect doors
That open onto corridors,
And girl’s faces (so romantic by starlight)
For the night
Is full of metaphor.
Some collect stamps
Under street lamps
But the stamps
Are ultimately the same
For they all play the game
Of metaphor
I long
For the busty blonde,
And yearn for the slim brunette.
What point in regret?
When both black and white
Provide such sweet delight
And the night is short
And those who do as they ought
Find that time’s chariot can not be caught?
There was a young lady called Flair
Who indulged in many an affair.
Her husband Ted
Found me under their bed
With Flair and his blonde mistress Claire …
The lightning flashes across the sky
And I
Hear the roar
Of Thor.
Its just passed midnight and from my window
I am reluctant to go
For I know
That although
The roar
Of Thor
Will be heard once more,
That this show
Of an evening late
Which I spectate
May survive
For a time
In rhyme
There was a young lady called Aphrodite
Who lost her see-through nightie.
She searched high and lo
And I really don’t know
Who has her see-through nightie …
There was a young man called Guy
Who said “a Socialist am I”,
As his housemaid Jane
Poured champagne
For me and my friend Guy
K Morris - Poet 