I am a man
And have respect
For women.
Yet a high-heel shoe
And a smooth, perfect
Leg
Turns my thoughts to sinning
And to bed.
I find
That an empty mind
Does not attract.
But a giggle.
A wriggle
And a vacuous smile,
May distract
For a while.
Secretive giggles.
Young women’s wriggles.
A moment of pleasure
In hot weather.
A young lady wearing just pink socks
Said, “my behaviour it so frequently shocks.
I can hear the knocking
Of the Lord Bishop Hocking.
I wonder will he like my socks?”.
When a young lady waving a rifle
Said, “I hope you like my trifle”.
I said, “it’s very good,
But, I was wondering could,
You please stop waving around that rifle!”.
We may
Never see tomorrow.
For each moment we borrow.
And tomorrow’s sun
Must become,
Today.
There once was a poet named Lyme
Who composed poems about nothing but time.
Whilst drinking one day,
The sky turned grey.
And the great publican, he called time.
I forget the ticking of the clock.
But recollect it, when I stop.
Is time benign?
Long after
I have reached my end,
Perchance a friend,
Suddenly hearing the tick tock
Of the clock
Will think on former laughter,
And their own, inevitable end.
After she departs
To a destination unknown
He texts her phone
With a “thank you”.
The arts may capture
A true
Lover’s rapture.
Or gratitude to an actress, who played
Her part, to perfection, on his stage.
Flowers in my mum’s garden
Bring to mind
A former time
When my grandfather grew roses.
I remember the scent
Of roses in his garden.
And my attempt
To make perfume.
In youth
Few engage with age.
And the truth
That roses,
Are gone so soon.
A young lady whose name is Alice
Lives in a place called Crystal Palace,
Where she works in a sauna
With my good friend Miss Warner.
But I’ve not yet met Miss Alice.
K Morris - Poet 