He hears her voice
And wonders what she does know
Of where men go
In their head. Choice
Is a word
Oft times heard.
Possessing seeming
Meaning,
It conceals scheming.
But women know
‘Tis not always so
And suspect
There maybe respect.
It helps them cope
For hope
Is the last thing to die.
Incongruous you stood,
A sofa in my local wood.
You belong in a living room
But as some poisonous mushroom
You despoil the grace
Of nature’s face.
No point to shout
About a litter lout,
For if you did hear
I fear
That you would not listen.
The glisten
of morning dew
Means nothing to you,
Who would rather view TV,
Than stare at bird or tree.
Doubtless you own a state-of-the-art television
(And a new settee).
Yet you lack the vision
To see
Beyond the dancing screen
To yonder wood,
Where the air is good
And fox and squirrel are oft times seen.
There was a young man named Gus
Who caught the wrong kind of bus.
He found himself on a boat,
With nought but a goat.
You should have heard that terrible fuss!
There was a young lady named Leigh
Who said, “is it really me?”.
But the glass it broke,
As the words she spoke,
So Leigh was unable to see!
—
There was a young man named Shane
Who caught the wrong train.
A guard named Pride
Said “enjoy the ride,
And my daughter’s name it is Jane!”
—
There was a young man named Shane
Who boarded the wrong train.
A guard called Pride
Said “enjoy the ride
As this is an express train!”
I remember you still.
How the heat
Did defeat
The outer chill.
Oh yes, I remember you still.
I remember you still.
How you did desire
The electric fire
In my bedroom,
And soon
The heat
Did defeat
The outer chill.
Oh yes, I remember you still
I remember you still.
How you bought that dress
To impress
And fulfil my desire.
The fire
Removed the outer chill.
Oh yes, I remember you still.
I remember you still.
Your head
On the bed
And us warm from the heat
That did defeat
The outer chill.
Oh yes, I remember you still …
As a child, I planted an apple’s seed.
I watched it grow and could not hide
My pride.
Alas it was a mere weed
That I did feed.
I observed an elderly puppet master, with a puppet on a string,
And my heart was sore for such a young and delicate thing.
The puppet did dance at his command
And he gripped her hand
Exceeding tight.
But out of sight
Of her master, I fancied that I saw the puppet wink
And I did think
On age and youth,
And appearance and truth
I long for hardback books
And sequestered nooks
In traditional pubs with open fires.
My desires
Are simple and yet
I get
Paperbacks that fall apart
And drinking dens that lack a heart.
The unvarnished
Truth is on display
When she removes her paint, at close of day.
Alone in her room, with tarnished
Skin,
She broods on sin
And the he
Who corrupted she.
But was the man to blame?
For an answering flame
There was in her,
He would swear,
Were he there
In the lionesses’s lair.
Is Adam to blame
For Eve’s shame
If he find an answering spark
Within her heart?
Yet he lit the match
And his pleasure took when she did catch
Alight
That night
Long ago.
She did not say “No”
But what a temptation
To dissipation
Is hard cash to a young woman in debt,
And yet …
There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted all of her toes.
She wore thick socks,
Which acted as locks,
So I have never seen her toes!
—
There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted 5 of her toes.
She left the remainder unvarnished.
Her reputation got tarnished,
As to why? Nobody knows!
—
There was a young lady named Rose
Who painted her fingers and toes.
She painted them black
But she did lack
Enough to varnish her nose!
K Morris - Poet 