A young lady whose name is Mustard
Said, “you are a no good bustard!”
I said to her, “Beth,
You bore me to death!
Go wash your hair in egg custard!”
A Young Lady Whose Name is Mustard
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Tag Archives: poetry blogs
Shadows of Poetry
In early January
My shadow goes in front of me.
The sun shines
But my hands are cold.
One day I know
My shadow will no longer go.
Though perhaps in rhyme
I will leave something behind
And people may see
Something of me.
For poets make shadows
Through their poetry
Magpie
She left her hair extension.
I kept it for her
Knowing she would return.
There was no pretension
That she was my lover.
Others have left things behind.
A girl left an earring.
I have always returned
But have never learned.
A sad magpie
Am I.
A Young Lady’s Vice
A young lady who is extremely nice
Is known for her love of vice.
She is fond of cake
And loves a good steak.
And now lets discuss that girl’s vice …
Miss Chancer the Dancer
I am marrying a young lady named Chancer
Who has a job as an erotic dancer.
She thinks I have money
And calls me her honey –
But, dear reader, I am also a chancer …
Matt’s Hat
I know a young man named Matt
Who wears a very fine hat.
He sits on the ground
And says nothing profound.
But he wears a very fine hat!
I Go out in the Rain
I go out in the rain
Again and Again
My mind on poetry.
The ground smells fresh
Of life and death
And I return again and again
To the rain
Thinking on poetry
And my mortality
The Passing Year
Should I shed a tear
For the dying year?
I survived a brain abscess
And lived to see the tree undress
In autumn.
My hair has longed turned white.
I can not fight
The passage of time.
Yet take delight
In this brief rhyme
Of life.
All things pass.
Yet my glass
Is at least half full.
The weather is dull
But I still hear the steady tick tock
Of the clock
On the wall
And relish these fallen leaves
For I, as they
Must pass away.
Stream of Consciousness Ramblings
My stream of consciousness runs
As the clock ticks.
The night is dark.
My heart is part dark.
I hear the TV
In the other room.
I imagine a girl’s perfume
But it is just I
Alone, unable to call.
Yet I may fall again
When I return to the capital city.
I can be witty
And I have desired pretty
Girls. I still do so,
But know
The night is cold
And I grow old
As the clock ticks the hours away.
In May
Girls dance around the pole.
I desire women and wine,
But time is short
And what I ought
To do
Is …
But to kiss
A girl’s soft lips
And for it to be meaningful
Would kill
This itch of mine
For women and wine.
Or perhaps I lie
To myself.
It is a truism
That wealth can not buy
Happiness.
Yet I
Continue to lie …
Cupid’s Bow
She wore heels
And brought a short
Dress to fulfil his fantasy.
They drank wine
To kill the time
And hide
The emptiness they both denied.
His transfer
Made everything fair and square.
And no arrow fell
From Cupid’s bow.
K Morris - Poet 