We say
“He passed away”.
The “d” word
Is often
Not heard.
He is in his coffin
So why this absurd
Fear
Of the “d” word?
Does the Reaper, standing, unnoticed, near
Smile at our denial
That you and I
Shall die?
Larkin took refuge in drink
But, at dawn did think
On death
And felt bereft.
I have now said
The word we dread
To voice.
We have a choice
Over what words are said
But we are nonetheless, dead
In the end
My friend.
There was a young lady named Amie
Who, feeling that life was a little samey,
Modelled for an erotic poster
On a roller coaster,
With a nurse whose name was Janey!
Poetry dies
In the poet’s eyes,
Or is it the skies
That turn black
So that he
And thee
Are unable to see?
We listened to music divine.
The wine
Was okay.
I knew
You would stay
For we had arranged it that way,
Love for a day
For which we would pay.
Both, in our own way
A beautiful young lady named Vixen
Likes to write flash fiction,
Whilst in my bedroom
And wearing sweet perfume.
But alas, this rhyme is only fiction!
There was a young lady called Lou
Who, due to feeling blue,
Went on a roller coaster
With her brand new toaster,
And a pig whose snout was blue!
Sometimes I would
That the bud
Could stay
That way.
In spring
Birds sing
And buds, for an hour,
Flower.
You, so slim
And supple,
Caused me to forget
My regret
And toil
In your soft brown skin,
And coconut oil.
A couple
For the night.
With the morning light
I was left, bereft
With the fading excite
Of the scent of coconut oil
From your brown girl skin,
Permeating the sheet
Where 2 strangers did, for a moment, meet.
When a young lady with knobbly knees
Said, “your dog undoubtedly has fleas!”,
He remarked, with a bark,
“The truth is stark,
Young lady, you have knobbly knees!”.
The poet sees
The birds and the bees.
The overheard act
Of a fact
Of life.
Wholly unintentional
And inconsequencial,
The poet sees
The birds and the bees.
K Morris - Poet 