Tag Archives: poetry

Ghosts under Lamp Posts

Do lamp posts
Show, by their fitful glow
The ghosts
Of sinners long ago?
And, on seeing that fitful glow
Do dying men go
Back, down that dark track
And perceive
Ghosts under lamp posts.
And, if so
Do they grieve
For the money spent
On cheap scent
Long ago?
Perhaps it is so,
But That, I can not know.


Changing faces.
So many graces
But, always, the same change.

Exchange of faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Passing faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Rearrange of faces.
Long lost graces,
But, the same, inevitable, change.

Review copies of my “Selectted Poems” will soon be available

Yesterday (6 August), I emailed my “Selected Poems” for final proof reading, (something I always do prior to pressing that “publish” button on Amazon)!

If you are interested in receiving a free (advanced) electronic copy in return for writing an honest review, please contact me at kmorrispoet (at) gmail . com, (the address is rendered thus to defeat spammers)! Please put “Review copy of K Morris Selected Poems” in the subject line of your email.

All being well, my “Selected Poems” will be available in ebook and paperback formats by end August.


An 18-year-old girl’s hair

Unaware as her hair
Brushes against my hand.
Pleasure rushes.
Then, again.
I maintain
My composure.
For a disclosure
Would embarrass both me and her.
And, after all its only her hair
That touches
My hand.

Middle-age clutches
At what can not be
For, you see
The truth
Is that age can not command
A youth
Who is unaware
Of the power of her hair
To excite delight
In a middle-aged man’s heart,
And find expression in art.

In The Fog Of Liquor

In the fog of liquor
Desire grows
And the heart beats quicker.
‘Tis bliss
To kiss
But the wise one knows
That those
Soft lips
At which he sips
Are as fleeting as the rose
Which in summer grows.

So we let go
In lust
While the dust
Under the bed
Is dead
Skin, and the summer rose
Grows brown
And each petal
Does settle
On the ground
And becomes as one
With flowers long since gone.

The Man With The Mop

The man with the mop
Waits in the wings
But we do not
Speak of such things.
Tiredness brings us to a stop,
And the man with the mop
Waits, unseen
In the wings
Ready to clean.
But we must
Not speak of dust
Or other such things,
But the man with the mop,
He waits in the wings.