There once was a snowwoman named Moriah
Who warmed herself by my fire.
She wore a coat of felt
And soon did melt.
O what a foolish desire for fire!
There Once Was A Snowwoman Named Moriah
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Tag Archives: poetry
This Snow
This snow
Fall
Will cover all.
But I know
That the click clack
Of heel
Will reveal
The black
Tarmac underneath.
And when the snow does cease
The path to my door
Shall be covered no more.
There Was A Young Lady Named Ruth
There was a young lady named Ruth
Who bought a place in Maynooth.
It was an historic hall
As I recall,
But alas it had no roof!
Can All This Water Cleanse My Thought
Can all this water
Cleanse my thought?
Is and ought.
The daughter
Of Eve
Will leave
Behind
A mind
(Mine)
Dwelling
On women and wine.
There is no telling
Where this will end.
As a boy
I took joy
In a pretend
Friend.
As an adult
The result
Is lies
And sighs.
Would that I could
Gaze with quietude
Into those eyes,
But no, I should not intrude
Bits Of Data Fly
Bits of data
Fly.
Sooner or later
I shall die.
I
Wonder why
I
Should care
Where
My words will go
For I know
That the winter snow
Will cover all.
Perhaps a few may recall
A word I said
When I am dead.
But in my graveyard plot
I shall know it not.
Why this conceit
On my part
that others should repeat
Let alone understand what lay in my heart?
I would
Do good
But know
I have not always done so.
Sitting here in this winter weather
I see a feather
Float on high
Through indifferent sky.
The wind will sigh
When I am gone
But not for me,
Though I shall be free
As wind and sea.
You Stayed For A While
You stayed for a while
And made me smile.
Then, when you where gone
I thought on
Guile
And those who choose
To lose
Their time
In rhyme.
And how verse can not feed
The poet’s every need
To My Dog, Trigger Who Wagged His Tail In Sleep
You wag your tail in sleep
And I see
In thee
Me.
Should I smile or weep?
There Was A Young Author Named Hook
There was a young author named Hook
Who said “I haven’t sold a single book!”.
He climbed a tree most high
And prayed to the sky
And all the birds did look …!
These Trees
These trees
Ask nothing of me.
The rain
Does not disdain
Me, so why do I
With wood nymphs dally
And tally
The cost of dry
Flowers?
So many hours
Spent
Incomplete,
Watering things replete
With artificial scent
The Poet And The Prostitute
You
Didn’t know what to do
But did it with such panache
For cash.
O my sweet
Girls must eat
While poets spend their time
In rhyme.
—
The above was prompted by my reading of Ernest Christopher Dowson’s “Cynara”, http://www.bartleby.com/336/687.html. Dowson belonged to the school of decadent poets and in “Cynara” he contrasts his unrequited love for a young woman with his (present) relationship with a prostitute. “Cynara” is a fine poem and Dowson deserves to be better known than he is.
K Morris - Poet 