There was a young man named Cook
Who said “look, I have written a book!”.
When the reading public gave a yawn
His poor heart was in pieces torn.
That naive young man named Cook!
There was a young man named Cook
Leave a reply
Tag Archives: poets
This game they play
This game they play
Day after day
Where there are no winners
(only sinners)
And losers.
Beggers can’t be choosers
And what is choice
Anyway?
They say
“You pays your money and you takes your choice”,
But when one voice
Is with experience rich
Who will warn
The fawn
That from it’s mother is torn
Of the oncoming car
That will go too far
And the impending ditch?
I Beg You!
“Don’t say its not expensive, unless you are going to buy it. I beg!”.
I overheard this snatch of conversation as I walked through the churchyard, on my way to the office yesterday. The oddity of the young woman’s mode of expression struck me. I couldn’t help thinking to myself, that had I wish to convey what the lady expressed, I would have done so rather differently. “I beg you, don’t say that its not expensive unless you are going to buy it”, perhaps. Indeed the use of the word “beg” struck me as being rather extreme and, on reflection I considered its employment to be unnecessary. “Don’t say its not expensive, unless you are going to buy it” would, I thought, have been my choice of words.
However, on giving the above further consideration, it struck me that we poets play with language all the time. In order to obtain a rhyme we express ourselves in ways that would be considered as odd where they to be used in our every day conversation. So, for example the poet will say
“The weather is drear
And none save my dog is near”.
While where he to express a similar sentiment in conversation with a friend, his use of language would more likely run along the following lines
“The weather is terrible, and I’m alone here, with only my dog for company”. But, of course the former would constitute poetry while the latter would not.
Perhaps the young lady I overheard yesterday is a budding poet. I hope so.
There is a sad fascination
There is a sad fascination
In watching a man digging his own tomb.
He protests that he is not
But the graveyard plot
Will consume his name.
He will apportion blame
(To others, for he is pure as the driven snow)
And will go
On digging his own grave.
(Though he could himself save
Had he the courage to gaze
In the glass and view
The situation as others do).
At Night
At night
There is no black and white.
Just the delight
Of you and me,
Converging
Merging,
Completely free
Of race
And place.
(https://lovelycurses.com/february-black-poetry-writing-month/).
Deathbed
Did a shadow pass
Before the glass?
Why stare?
For there is no one there.
His head
Upon the deathbed
Breathes her scent.
Should he repent
And if so, of what?
The bed is hot
Where the cold girl lay.
He finds a number
(Not her’s,
The one who is descending the stairs)
But the girl he texted yesterday.
Should he slumber
Or encumber
The bedpost with another notch,
A further blotch
On the once virgin sheet?
There was a rich young man named More
There was a rich young man named More
Who was extremely fond of the poor.
When they asked him for money
He said “the weather is sunny
And I do adore the poor!”.
A Lover’s Hand
A hand
Can command
The ocean’s tide
To sweep aside
All convention
In waves that carry us away.
But it is my contention
(Despite what young lovers say)
That many a ship ends in grief
On a reef
That he and she
Are too blind to see
Judge Not
The maiden’s shapely bust
Engenders her lover’s lust
And the moralist’s disgust.
Lovers and moralists are soon dust
So let it be
For tis no concern of thee
Or me
And the wise agree
That there is no glee
In our final bed.
Eugenics
I knew
A man who
Was a progressive.
“The regressive
Tories” he hated.
He further stated
That “the unintelligent should not breed”.
Hitler’s seed
Runs through
Many a reactionary
And progressive too.
K Morris - Poet 