In a strange bed, she lies.
Her sighs
Real as the cries
On a fairground ride.
She
Can not decide
What to have for tea.
His eyes close
In the moment of release,
A brief surcease
From grief.
And she
Puts on her clothes,
And goes
Home for tea.
One day
She may
Look into a guy’s eyes
And find
Nothing behind.
My lover who is petite and blonde
Has a very deep garden pond.
When she found me with Yvette,
(who is a gorgeous, slim brunnette,
I became acquainted with her pond!
Cleaners find
Traces left behind.
Their bachelor boss so staid
With a pretty maid,
They see in their mind’s eye
As fresh sheets are laid
On the stolid old bed.
When cleaners dust
And discover a girl’s misplaced jewel
Perchance they may
Ponder on lust
And think their master a fool.
But, being paid to clean
They leave the ring,
Or some such thing
As though unseen,
In the same place.
While their imagination runs wild …
On a sunny afternoon
I heard
The bird
Of night,
And thought how soon
The light
Fades, in woodland glades.
And how the owl does prey,
At the closing of our day.
A young lady named Jane
Wields a mean old cane,
Whilst her friend miss Kipper
Prefers the use of a slipper.
And Shane he’s sweet on Jane!
Flowers on either side
Of the path.
I
Can not decide
Whether to laugh
Or cry.
Flowers live and die
While I
Smile
And pass
By,
Seeing through nature’s glass,
You and I.
When a young lady named Jane
Said, “your verse is far to mundane!”.
And I wrote a poem about her
And my mistress who’s called Claire,
I got warned by Jane’s lawyer Lorraine!
When a loose young lady named Bell
Said, “many men have here fell”.
And I said, “on yonder path?”,
She said, “are you having a laugh?”.
And then, dear reader, I fell!
An elderly gent living in a tent
Said, “I have all my money spent
On good living and young women
And now my hair is thinning.
Sir, could you pay my rent?”.
I stand half-apart
My heart
Distanced, from the fray.
I love the night.
But, sometimes, I pray
For the light
Of day.
Do I play
At art?
My heart
Does say
“Long
Before civilisation came
There was birdsong.
The birdsong
Will remain”.
K Morris - Poet 