There was a young authoress named Leigh
Who said “my writing shall survive me”.
She died one midnight drear
(Twas the middle of the year),
And was buried by critics three!
There was a young authoress named Leigh
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Tag Archives: poetry
Heels and Fingers
The heels are gone
Yet her scent lingers on.
Delicate fingers
Strummed a tune
That was over all too soon.
There were 2 heads
Laid upon my bed,
Now there is but one
Yet her scent lingers on.
Perfume fades over time
Until all scent is gone
But recollection of heels and fingers
Lingers
On in rhyme.
An Autumn Girl
An autumn girl.
Falling leaves whirl.
Trees naked stand
Their branches reaching for the great sky
And I.
No More
Once I desired the fecund fruit.
Passion’s flute
Sounded loud and clear.
Now I hear
The great tide withdraw.
Venus shall tread no more
On this barren shore.
Set a fly to catch a spider
Diving deep I hold my breath.
Who knows what will creep
Out from this rock
(I am beyond shock),
For this is the World Wide Web where spiders wait
And find too late
That the juicy fly
They hoped to entangle is … I
The Shame Game
Shall we play
The game
Of shame
Where you pass
Moral judgement on me
But fail to see,
In the glass
The slightest trace
Of disgrace
In your own sweet face?
Shall I say
By way
Of defence
That you did such and such?
Tis all too much
And a pretence
Of defence
As 2 wrongs do not make a right.
So we fight
And the bed is cold at night.
There was a young man from Pakistan
There was a young man from Pakistan
Who married a girl called Anne.
She was extremely pretty
And worked in the city
For a man by the name of Dan
Public Speaking
I heard his peroration
About the good of the nation
And how we must all stick together
Through stormy weather.
I heard another
Say all men are my brother.
And rich old Jack
Must give what collective Jill does lack.
Looking back at that hall
I recall
The people cheering.
Others jeering,
And the cynics sneering.
The Lost Soul
In the beginning
Sinning
Is like touching a live wire.
You know
That you mustn’t go
There But desire
Twitches
And reputation, riches,
Are for a moment forgot
In pleasure’s hot
Flush
And rush.
Later sinning
Becomes habit forming.
The devil is grinning
And there is no chance of reforming.
You fight
At night
Under sweated sheet.
When the morn breaks
The bird takes Flight
Leaving you in defeat.
Thoughts prior to sleep
Come the morn
I shall yawn,
Or not.
In the graveyard plot
Tombs stand.
Now my hand
Is hot.
K Morris - Poet 