You in that dress,
Trying to impress.
Its anyone’s guess why.
The heater near by,
We sat overheating,
Time eating away,
Though I knew you would stay,
Until break of day.
Come the morn, no cock crew,
Yet I knew we where through,
Until the next time.
O women and wine,
Are truly divine,
And man knows not,
When he has lost the plot …
An alley cat prowls.
A wild dog growls,
In answer and howls,
Longing for tasty meat
To eat.
Feline
And canine.
Meet
And greet.
Her pointy feet,
Their mutual deceit.
I see a line
Of feline
And Canine,
Never ending,
Wending
It’s weary way
To the place where all must pay.
There was a young lady called Mary
Who worked in a haunted dairy.
On seeing a ghoul
She said, “I am no fool.
You are not in the least bit scary …”!
—
There was a young lady called Mary
Who worked in a haunted dairy.
On seeing a ghoul
And being a fool,
She mistook it for a fairy!
I
Wish that the fly
In the ointment would die,
But worry it will turn into a bee
And sting me.
I
Conjured up the fly.
It grows in size
Which is no surprise
For those who feed
Flies, find they breed.
Man sews
A poisoned seed
Called want, not need
And goes
In search of flies to feed.
If I where a rentier living off capital
(The very idea is laughable)!
I would retire to the moors
(with other bores)
And shoot peasants
Yes, I think that would be pleasant …!
I would terrorise the local wenches
And build high fences
To keep at bay
Those intent on stealing my wealth away.
Huge parties I would throw
And my reputation for debauchery would grow.
The vicar would pray
Lest I give his secret away
While the bishop’s innocent daughter
Would, like a lamb to the slaughter …
But I am no collector of dividends
And my efforts bend
To writing verse
Which, growing worse and worse
Will, I fear, not fill my purse …!
The scent of leaves
Temporarily relieves
My introspection.
There can be no excuse
For dejection
When Autumn is here to seduce
Me with her heady scent.
I repent
Of fruitless hours spent
Over keyboards
While the squirrel hoards
Nuts in the nearby park
And the clear, sharp bark
Of a fox
Says “a pox
On your writing.
You ought in the outdoors to be delighting.
Take a walk in yonder wood
For the air
There is good
And Autumn fair
Is warmed by a gentle sun.
Soon winter will come.
Have done
With melancholy thought
For time, once passed can not be caught
And every second is dearly bought”.
Why do I care
When you call me “sir”?
I say “call me by my name”
But, again and again
You draw that distinction between you and I.
“Tell me my friend, why?”
I am no Communist red
With idealism pervading my head.
But as one human to another
I tell you my friend, “you are my brother”.
So I guess that is why I care
When you call me “sir”.
There was a young god called Mars
Who picked a fight in all the bars.
He grew rather pale
When they threw him in jail
As he didn’t like the bars …!
I am told
Your love is gold.
This You confirm,
Which makes me squirm
And sigh,
Yet ask not why
For I
Have grit in mine own eye.
Stiff as a board.
But more reluctant,
With only the invisible cord
To loosely tie
You to I.
A sigh.
The night dies
Away.
Into indifferent day
And no compassion have you for I.
K Morris - Poet 