There once was a poet called Prout
Who wrote a poem about a sprout.
His verse was so bad
That it drove people mad
And his wife, she threw him out!
There Once Was A Poet Called Prout
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Tag Archives: poems
When Old Acquaintances Come Back
When old acquaintances come back
Often we lack
The will to refuse.
Many a man has, in booze
Rekindled a former desire.
The fire
Burns, and he is lost
In the pleasure of pain.
He will splash
His cash
In a manner most rash
And go down the primrose path
With a bittersweet laugh.
He deletes her number
But she
Retains his.
Tis
Always the same
Though man may curse
He will continue to traverse
The well worn road of pleasure and pain.
Macbeth’s Owl
In this place, half-urban and half-green
The owl is oft times seen.
Does he lament
The lives misspent
By men
Who
When
They hear
His too-wit too-woo
Are filled with the ancient fear
That so gripped Macbeth
Of death?
Who
On hearing the bird’s too-wit too-woo
Can deny
That they will die?
Not I.
Some, tis true
On harkening to
The owl’s too-wit too-woo
Think no such thought.
Perhaps I ought
Therefore to ponder
no more
Upon yonder
Cry.
Yet I
Know that I
Shall die.
You can dress it up as you will
But in the still
Of night,
Oft times out of sight
My friend’s erie cry
Reminds me that I
Shall die.
Lost In The Familiar Wood
Lost in the familiar wood.
I have not been good.
Flowers catch at me.
Breaking free
I laugh
As I have travelled this path
Before, and spent hours
Delighting in flowers,
But no more?
Flirts
Flirts in skirts.
All is quiet
At night.
Save for the riot
Of dreams and nightmares.
He who dares
May Gain the prize
Of a girl’s come-on eyes.
But if she say “no”
Will he go
Down the path
Of nice guy or psychopath?
Flirtation
Is not an invitation
To remove a girl’s short dress
Unless
She explicitly says “yes”.
Having Her Headphones On
Having her headphones on
And being far gone
In music’s sound
She perceives nothing profound.
But there is nothing profound
To see
In the pound, pound, pound
Of he.
It being over
She retrieves her pullover
And other things.
She sings
Her feet
Tap to a discordant beat
And with headphones still in place
She departs leaving a slight trace
Of perfume
And a discarded hairband
In the bedroom.
The latter he does not understand.
There Was A Young Lady Called Sky
There was a young lady called Sky
Who’s heels where extremely high.
Her sister Louise
Being a terrible tease
Lent them to my good friend Guy.
There Was A Young Lady Called Moriah
There was a young lady called Moriah
Who married a country squire.
While her husband shot grouse
She would remain in the house
And stoke the parson’s fire
The disillusioned Rake
Passionless kisses,
Abysses
Of sandpaper, but one must be polite
And feign delight
For that is what a gentleman must do,
Whether or not it be true.
Whether there be the expense of a meal or no
Round and round I go
Gathering the fruit that is seeming sweet to eat,
Then awake, and wash the bitter juice
That did so seduce
From the once innocent sheet.
Standing At My Window
Standing at my window
Reluctant to go
For I know
Not how long I shall be here.
Not quite half-way through the year.
May is love and birds
And erratic words
That fall
As the passing sunlight upon my wall.
Tomorrow will come (probably for me)
And I shall see
The sun’s rays fall
Upon this wall
But I know not
What tomorrow has in store …
K Morris - Poet 