There is a middle-aged lady called Ruth
Who lived a misspent youth.
She claims to know me
But, you see
She rarely tells the truth …
There Is A Middle-Aged Lady Called Ruth
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Tag Archives: poetry
Why When?
Why when
Middle-aged men
See young women
Are they drawn to them?
Tis the fear
Of the Reaper, who draweth slowly near.
Tis a dread
Of being dead,
Of dust
That causes them
To satiate their lust
In thought and sometimes deed
For the seed
Lives on
After we are gone.
Desire
“Alergic to something?” I enquire.
“Yes”. Desire.
Thoughts whirl.
Not the same girl
But her voice
And the same half-inocent laughter.
And after
Comes the choice.
Is,
Ought.
I can not
Help my thought
On this hot
Day.
And she sniffs in that self-same way.
I Know A Young Lady Called Marr
I know a young lady called Marr
Who works in a gentleman’s bar.
One day, when the lights went out
I heard her shout,
“The bishop has my bra!”.
I know a young lady called Marr
Who works in a gentleman’s bar.
One day, when the lights went out
I heard her shout,
“Sir, you go too far!”.
They Didn’t Kiss Because
They didn’t kiss because
It was
The first night.
It didn’t seem right
And it was neither the time
Nor the place.
He couldn’t see her face
And being unsure
Whether he would see her more
He did capture
A passing rapture
In rhyme.
With Sincere Apologies To Edward Lear
The owl and the pussycat went to sea, in a leaky, cardboard boat.
They had lost all their money
To a girl called Honey
Along with a £5 note.
The owl looked up to the stars above
And sang to a small guitar
“Oh beautiful pussy, oh pussy my love
I wonder where we are?
We are? We are?
I wonder where we are?”
With a sorrowful sigh
The pussy made reply:
“Owl,
You are a stupid old fowl!
Make no mistake
We
Are not at sea
But on a lake!
Oh what a stupid old fowl you are
You are
You are!
Oh what a stupid old fowl you are!”.
So they sailed away
For a year and a day
To the land where the bong tree grows.
And there in a wood
A stoned student stood
Blowing smoke from the end of his nose
His nose
His nose.
Blowing smoke from the end of his nose.
“Dear student are you willing
To sell for one shilling
Your pot?” Said the student, “I will”.
So they took it away
And were arrested next day
By the policeman who lives on the hill …
(A shortened version of this poem originally appeared on Ester Chilton’s blog, https://esthernewtonblog.wordpress.com).
There Was A Young Man Called Kirt
There was a young man called Kirt
Who composed a poem about a skirt.
It being very protracted
I became distracted
And thought
It ought
To be short.
Feedback On Your Poems At The Poetry Cafe
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There are various dates available in July and August.
The cost for Poetry Society members is £60 and £70 for non-members.
For further information please visit http://poetrysociety.org.uk/poetry-society-information/services/poetry-surgery/.
The Oldest Game In Town
Tis the oldest game in town,
Save for agriculture
Perhaps. Or did moralists frown
When the hunter gatherers played
With the vulture?
And who then preyed?
And what is prey
Anyway?
Tis the same
Old game
Today. Vultures with vultures dance.
The word said
Is “Bed”
But romance
Is dead.
The soiled rose
With too short clothes
Will prey
On those
Who pay
To play
With prey.
But for a moment stay,
Just who created the prey?
None Can Force The Pot
None can force the pot
To be hot.
And a watched pot
Never boils.
Cease your toils
And she
Will love thee
(or not.
K Morris - Poet 