Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.
They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.
A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.
Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.
Pips
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Tag Archives: poetry
False Memory
“If there be such a thing
As false memory,
Why then does recollection sting
As a demented wasp?
The physical pain
May go, but the buzz
Does remain,
Churning,
Returning
Again and again.
The lunatics have taken over the asylum
But who are the lunatics and who are the sane?
And why in the brain
Does the imaginary sting
Remain?
The plays the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king”.
“But Claudius is long since dead
And Hamlet is mad”,
The doctor said.
Tennis
She plays
And the last rays
Of the setting sun
Catch her hand
That can command
An ocean.
A final motion
Of her wrist
And their game is done.
Scythes
Harken
As gardeners their scythes
Sharpen
And see, how the skies
Darken.
There Was A Young Poet Called Leigh
There was a young poet called Leigh
Who wrote using free verse.
Sometimes she would find
That not using rhyme
Was a bit of a bind,
So wrote using verse that was free!
Autumnal
The sound of a blackbird
By me heard
As I savour Autumn’s scent,
After a day spent
In old London Town.
A myriad of leaves have fallen down
Today
(and trees too they say),
But it is all to soon
For ‘Tis only June …
—
(Note: This poem was prompted by my walk home from work, on 6 June. The evening felt Autumnal, despite it being early June).
Kevin Morris’s poem “Feather” published on Rhyme
Many thanks to Victoria for publishing my poem, “Feather” on her excellent site, Rhyme. To read my poem please visit, https://rhymepoetry.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/feather/.
I Dreamed
I dreamed
And in my dream it seemed
To me that I did look
Upon my book.
It’s back
Did my photograph lack
And what had been
Could no longer be seen.
Grace
She changes from jeans to a dress,
To impress for a while,
And bring a smile
To the face
Of a man who slips
Ever further from grace.
Who Knows?
Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
Sometimes
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.
K Morris - Poet 