Have you heard of a dominatrix named Nicks
Who is known for her love of sticks?
If you ask how I know,
I heard it from Vicar Joe;
Who is known for his love of sticks …
Dom
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Tag Archives: poetry blogs
Cold Birds
Standing in the cold park
I heard the birds
Sing in early January.
I will hear them in spring.
And think I see
Cold birds.
Yet I know that the winter
Lives in me
And poets sing
Of what is true.
Dodgy
Whilst browsing a dodgy website
I encountered a young lady named White.
She came round to mine
And after much wine
I kissed that young lady good night …
Generation Z
I am dating a young lady from Gen Z
Who says that she is in love with me!
She calls me her honey
And thinks I have money.
So don’t tell her the truth about me …
A Memory
You padded around my flat
Silent as a cat.
I strain
To remember your name.
Then it comes back.
And I recall
You wanted something else
And I, wanted you,
And fell from grace.
A few years later, you called my name
In the street
Were intimate strangers
By mischance meet.
You were no old flame.
Yet the memory remains
Of a girl, perhaps half there.
And your friend in the street
Who knew it was true
But claimed a mistake
Had occurred.
Yet, I knew you –
A sleek black cat
Who lost her fur
In a gentleman’s flat.
Lethe
One day
I will cross the Styx
And drink of Lethe.
All our memories must decay.
But some succumb
To Lethe
Before they make their way
Over the Styx.
We grieve
For those who are here
Yet gone away.
And pray
That when we leave
We may
Recognise Charron.
Yet some who forget
Before they cross
Know not what
They have lost
More wine
When a young lady drinking my wine
Said, “your rhyme it is truly divine!”
I said to her, “miss,
Do give me a kiss!”
She said, “first give me more wine!”
The Poetic Old Goat
There once was a poetic old goat
Who went and swallowed a coat.
He said, “that was delicious!”
But the effects were pernicious,
As a button stuck in his throat!
Being Blind
Being blind I find
I can read and write in the dark.
I have some small sight
So turn on the light at night
To prevent the stubbing of toes
And avoid
The stairs.
For, if I fall
All dreams and nightmares
May end
And eternal dark descend.
But the night
Will shut out the light
For us all
In the end
Whether we have blind eyes
Or otherwise.
My Muse
The desk is cold to my hand.
I can not command
My poetic muse.
So think of girls who lose their shoes,
And poets who
Say more than they ought to
Of women and wine
And men who may seem
To spend their time
In fleeting dreams.
But it is no crime
For a poetic muse
To lose
Her ethereal shoes.
Yet what can be said
Should she lay her fickle head
Upon the poet’s empty bed
Where love sleeps.
Or is dead.
K Morris - Poet 