The undiscovered
Is exciting,
And oh so inviting.
But, once uncovered,
Oh so slow
You scarcely know
That that which was once, inviting
Is becoming, ever less
Exciting,
For her dress
Covers
That which has, long ago, been discovered.
A girl’s hairclip
Found in the home
Of the lone
Bachelor, may indicate a slip
From grace.
But who can trace
How many hairclips
And slips
There have been?
Maybe even he
Can not glean,
For mementos are rare
And what man counts the hair
On a girl’s head
When they come to his bed?
Poet Kevin Morris reading a further selection of his work.
When a young lady named Lyme
Said, “would you like a good time?”,
I said, “madam, I am moral
But let us 2 not quarrel,
And do come with me to dine”.
Alone,
At home,
I hear the moan
Of someone up above
Making love.
Or is it just,
Lust?
My present desire
Is to write.
For which I require
Quiet. But, sometimes at night
I hear, up above
A couple making love,
Or is it just,
Lust?
When a young lady named Claire
Said, “follow me up this stair”,
Being up for fun
I began to run,
And enjoyed an extremely tasty eclair!
—
When a young lady wearing heels
Said, “come and see the seals”,
I followed her along the beach
But, being just out of reach,
Instead I watched the seals.
He met
A girl with no name
Who said, “I am Yvette.
Let us not talk of sorrow
But tomorrow
You may regret”.
So he took his pleasure
With Yvette or Heather,
And there was delight
For him that night
And sorrow
On the morrow.
He will borrow
From the bank, again
To play
With the girl with no name,
Who will not stay,
But she is not to blame.
The girl with no name
Has an ancient profession
Which, out of discretion
I shall not name.
Russian roulette must end in shame,
But she is not to blame.
I once had a beautiful lover named Rose
Who refused to expose her toes.
And when I asked her “why?”,
She said, “all flesh must die”,
So I wept for Rose and her toes
Underneath,
Nakedness.
Desired.
Riotous imaginings in his head.
Every man has his fantasy.
She, sliding out of clothes.
Slowly exposing an untried rose
August has long since ceased to be.
Upon the forest floor,
The oak and Chestnut has shed its store,
Unceremoniously, of conker and acorn.
Mulch for the lawn,
Now leaves feed the ground.
K Morris - Poet 