I perceive
The flowers as I
Pass by.
Should I
Grieve
That they will die?
I paused and smelt
And felt
Their slim stem that I
Could so easily break.
I chose not to take
And did the blooms forsake
For I
Know that they shall die
A doleful young man called Cook
Sought a sequestered nook.
His thoughts where muddy
And he needed to study
So there he took
A book.
A young lady was there
With auburn hair.
And Cook
His thoughts no longer muddy
Forsook
Both book
And study …
There was a young man called Jack
Who gave my head a whack.
Only last week
I turned the other cheek,
But today I whacked Jack back!
“G and I
Are wearing a short
Skirt”.
She said as I
Passed by.
An attempt to flirt?
Caught off guard
I didn’t know what to say,
Mumbled some words
And went on my way.
Both young enough
To be my daughter.
Why dwell on such stuff?
For we where all the worse for drink.
Yet I still think
On that night
And thus write
It down
Though the prude
Will consider me crude
And frown.
There was a young lady called Kate
Who invariably came home late.
When her father, Lord Moor
Banged on my door
I hid with his young daughter Kate …
A myriad leaves fall down
Tis many a long day
Since the gray
Hair were brown
Here, in this little Bay,
Full of tumultuous life and great repose,
Where, twice a day,
The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes,
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,
I sit me down.
For want of me the world’s course will not fail:
When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;
The truth is great, and shall prevail,
When none cares whether it prevail or not.
The moralist judgement passes
On men in glasses
Who make passes
At pretty lasses.
While the wise observe that those who criticise,
Will never find favour in a girl’s bright eyes.
(Written in response to https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/observe/).
Shall I write a poem risqué
About a girl called Fay?
As you know
I am not that way
At all,
Being pure as the snow
That does fall
On an inner city street
Where Fay’s feet
Clip clop
In heels high,
Causing a passing guy
To stop
And give Fay the eye …
There once was an author called Kate
With whom I had a date.
She stayed up all night
And did nought but write
So that was our only date!
K Morris - Poet 