As ghosts they come
Often when the sun
Is burning.
And, when the sun
Does set,
Oft you will find
His mind
Turning,
To thoughts of regret.
One day
They
Will no longer come
And the sun
Will, forever set
On his regret.
Some readers may engage
With a yellowing page.
And vampire
And desire.
At school, I read freely
Of Kipling’s poetry.
No one told me
What my thought ought
To be.
Today there is an urge
To purge
His poetry.
Yet, in “Recessional”, we see
The fire of empire die.
They hector
And lecture.
While I,
And those like me,
Retreat into our poetry.
A lady who is just over 40
Is rather pretty, and really quite naughty.
Her husband Ray
Is away today.
As for me, I’m feeling quite naughty!
She has long dark hair.
Nothing to bind
Him there.
It is not that kind
Of affair.
She is there
For a time.
Caught in his rhyme.
A something, of art
But no part
Of his heart.
Is the poet’s duty
To beauty?
Art may uglify.
Yet truth is beauty,
And poets lie.
There was a young lady named Shirley
Whose hair was both long and curly.
When it fell right off
She said, with a cough,
“This life, it doesn’t treat me fairly!”.
When a young lady riding a fox
Said, “do you like my new socks?”.
I said, “too many young women
Are fond of nothing but sinning.
And that fox has eaten your socks!”.
When old men
Lust
After young women.
You will find
Dust,
And sinning
On their mind.
There was a journalist of no distinction
Who came from a place called Lincoln.
He wrote about me
And pretty Miss Leigh.
And he found his extinction in Lincoln.
I met a lady of pleasure
Whose name was Louise or Heather
I spent much time
In composing this rhyme,
Which delighted that lady of pleasure.
On an autumn day
I touched dead
Leaves on a tree.
I walked away.
But those dead,
Leaves did stay
With me.
K Morris - Poet 