There was a young man named Night
Who was of the Conservative right.
He married a Socialist bold
And I am told
That they argued politics every night!
There Was A Young Man Named Night
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Tag Archives: poetry
Nurse
You are content
For the nurse
May prevent
The worst
For a while.
The smile
Of an unknown friend
Under the white sheet
Is passing sweet.
Yet in the end
The nurse
On swift feet
Can not stay the dread traverse
Of yonder hearse.
There Was A Young Man Named Max
There was a young man named Max
Who evaded much of his tax.
When the taxman came
He hid in shame,
And his accountant played on the sax!
—
There was a young man named Max
Who evaded much of his tax.
When the taxman came
He hid in shame,
And his wife ran away with the tax!
In My Youth
In my youth
To tell truth
Every girl appeared to me
To be
A spark to ignite.
My flame burned bright
And I would take delight
In puppy dreams.
Now it seems
That I have too much
As I at nought but phantoms clutch.
I have delighted
In desire
Unrequited
And received a kind of satisfaction
Through what the vulgar term “action”.
Their fire
Is often cold, although
A few I know
Make a show
Of pretending it is not so.
“A Late Walk” by Robert Frost
Yesterday evening, I took down Robert Frost’s “A Boy’s Will” from my bookshelves and spent a delightful hour or so leafing through it. “A Boy’s Will” contains many wonderful poems, one of my favourites being “A Late Walk” which can be found here, http://www.bartleby.com/117/5.html. If you are unfamiliar with the work of Frost, I highly recommend reading “A Boy’s Will”.
Augurs
Walking through the churchyard
I heard
you talking.
Your word
Was gentle then,
A breeze
Whispering amongst the leaves,
But when
You In anger blow
The wise know
That your breath
Augurs death,
For we reap what we sow.
There Was An Elderly Man Named Locke
There was an elderly man named Locke
Who owned a grandfather clock.
Dead on nine
He would dine
To the chimes of that grandfather clock
Give Me A Wealthy Patron To Support My Rhyme
Give me a wealthy patron to support my rhyme
That I may please
And gently tease.
But a thought most sad
Drives me mad
For I was born in the modern time!
Shal I compose jingles
To sell pringles?
Or advertise singles
Clubs
Where couples in bath tubs …
No, late at night
I shall continue to write
In rhyme
Until come my time …
There Was A Young Man Named Moor
There was a young man named Moor
Who’s poetry was most obscure.
Much to his surprise
Readers did criticise
So he composed a whole lot more!
Why I am reluctant to comment on the work of fellow poets
It goes without saying that I am delighted whenever readers express appreciation for my work. Its wonderful to know that my poetry brings pleasure to others.
On occasions readers appreciation of my poetry has caused them to contact me requesting that I critique their work. I am greatly flattered when this occurs. However I invariably respond with a courteous decline.
As with all poets, I have my own unique style. This usually entails the extensive use of rhyme. I find an intrinsic beauty in traditional rhyming poetry which, no doubt is a major factor in explaining my use of the form. That is not to say that I never engage in free verse poetry. I do, however this is rare and when I do utilise this form it is, almost invariably in the context of a poem in which rhyme predominates. Where I to critique many free verse poems I would, in all honesty have to say that I did not consider them to constitute poetry. That is not to say that free verse can not be moving and extremely beautiful. Indeed it can and it is worthy of praise as regards the possession of these qualities. It is, however (in my opinion) moving and beautiful prose (rather than poetry) and any comments by me would, in all honesty have to reflect my view of the matter.
More generally, my perspective of the merits and/or demerits of a given poem is just that (my own view), others may disagree. I do not wish to be the person responsible for dampening the enthusiasm of a budding poet. I do, from time to time come across poetry which is (in my opinion) truly awful. When confronted by work of this nature I click away without commenting because (as I say above) I have no desire to puncture anyone’s balloon.
My own style of writing (rhyming poetry) is, I am well aware considered as old-fashioned and overly restrictive by many modern poets and critics. One mans meat is another mans poison. Let each poet plough his/her own furrow, I will not trespass on their territory (other than to comment and/or like if I truly feel that their work possesses merit). Otherwise I shall refrain from passing judgement.
K Morris - Poet 