Stillettos encase neat
Little feet.
Bare
Perfectly toned legs invite
And excite.
Mutual delight
They may find,
To temporarily bind
Them together, but does he care
To probe what is in there?
No, not that obvious place,
The space
Where many a man will
Thrill,
Spill
Then go.
No, I mean her brain
That does contain
The whole girl.
The Whirl
Of loves, thoughts and emotion,
The vast ocean
Of her soul.
If I could be one with the song of the birds
No words
Would I require,
But man’s desire
Led to his fall,
And now the call
Of the bird
Goes unheard
By those drunk on their own words
I am in need of a trip to the barber’s, (I fully intend to pay a visit this weekend)! The length of my hair caused an acquaintance to remark that I had a “Byronic” look. Does that mean that I am, as Lady Caroline Lamb remarked of Lord Byron, “mad, bad and dangerous to know” I wonder?!
There was a young lady called Rose
Who decided a poem to compose.
She wrote a verse most fine,
While drunk on cheap wine
And tattooed it right on her nose …!
There was a young man called Pailing
Who went out with his dog sailing.
They got lost in the ocean,
And there was quite a commotion,
You should have heard their weeping and wailing!
—
There was a young man called Pailing
Who bought a brand new railing.
But the darned thing broke,
And he remarked, “what a joke,
And the light it is certainly failing!”
On a fine
December day, when the sun does shine,
I breathe in the smell
Of old books, and hope all may be well.
Dust causes me to cough.
One may scoff
At the idea
Yet I fancy, death brings up the rear.
My wardrobe door creaks at a late hour.
Reason’s power
Has gone astray
And I pray
That despair
Remains in his lair.
A beautiful bird came to a river most still.
She dipped her bill
And a mighty torrent took river and bird
To a place
Beyond any word
From a poet heard,
Where lovers embrace.
Thought
Caught
In the flames of this fire,
Fanning my desire
For a past when the publican laid logs
In fireplaces
And drinker’s faces
Gathered around the blaze as their dogs
Lazed beside the eternal flame.
It is not the same
Since the pub changed hands. The beer
Remains unchanged, yet I fear
The flame does not burn as bright
Of a winter’s night
And the grate is too often cold.
The death of the year
Is near.
The last day of November
Is icey cold,
I wonder, what will December
Hold?
This freezing wind
Does rescind
Summer’s delights
As winter Makes toys
Of all our joys
On patrol.
She is in control,
Her whole
Being bent
On making him content.
His pent
Up frustration
Is expressed in dissipation.
He has long since lost control
And is losing his soul.
She stays for a while
Then leaves with a smile
And a wave.
The position is grave
And no one is saved.
On patrol again
She wonders when
Or if the men
Will ever see
The real she
Hidden behind the make-up.
Girl and man need a wake-up
Call,
But it is easier to fall
Than to arise
And reach for the skies.
K Morris - Poet 