When a young lady of an ancient profession
Said, “sir, I must make a shocking confession,
Do you know
A bishop Jo?”,
I replied, “dear madam, please show some discretion!”.
When A Young Lady Of An Ancient Profession
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Tag Archives: poets
Dead Stop
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or maybe
They can not be said
Meaningfully by me.
As does nearly always happen
My train stopped, dead
At Clapham
(Though not for its proper, brief
Stay). We did not pull away.
What can be said
About grief
(Not experienced by me)?
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry.
When, that evening I came back
The track at Clapham
Was clear.
We made good time.
Though a drear
Thought did cross my mind,
But I find
That some things can not easily be said
In rhyme
By me, as I sit here, warm
Thinking of the ajacent platform
And how our train stopped, dead,
But, perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or at least by me.
A Young Man Whose Name Is Lee
A young man whose name is Lee
Has a degree in philosophy.
He is extremely clever
And married to Heather,
And he serves a mean cream tea!
Tactile
I met a girl in
A sequin
Top. Being blind
I find
That I notice the tactile.
And sequins,
Being tactile
I can not deny,
That I
Thought on sins.
Binmen
The binmen
Make
A lot of noise when
They take
The rubbish away
At 6:20 am.
My alarm ushers in
Another day
Of virtue and sin.
But what does it matter my friend
When all men
Are bound for the dustbin
In the end?
When A Young Lady Named Leigh
When a young lady named Leigh
Composed a poem about me,
Of course I was flattered,
But the fish wasn’t battered,
So we had steak for tea!
There Once Was A Virile Young Man
There once was a virile young man
Who, on seeing a passing pram,
Doffed his hat
To the mother,
And said, “I once had a lover,
Who looked a lot like that . . .!”.
Ghosts under Lamp Posts
Do lamp posts
Show, by their fitful glow
The ghosts
Of sinners long ago?
And, on seeing that fitful glow
Do dying men go
Back, down that dark track
And perceive
Ghosts under lamp posts.
And, if so
Do they grieve
For the money spent
On cheap scent
Long ago?
Perhaps it is so,
But That, I can not know.
When A Young Man Named Coker
When a young man named Coker
Said, “your poetry ’tis mediocre”,
I gazed into the fire
And replied, “do you admire
“This poker, my late friend coker?”
Muddy Revisited
“Muddy” first appeared here in 2016. Looking at the state of British politics, and the world in general, I feel impelled to share this poem again.
—
Thoughts muddy
I will forsake
And take
Refuge in my study,
Among poets who speak
Words that endure beyond a week.
I shall sit listening to birdsong.
The long
Summer days willimperceptibly turn
Into Autumn. I shall the world spurn
And yearn
For Keat’s Nightingale.
K Morris - Poet 