Some find it easy to write about death
And readers raise
A glass in praise
Of their art.
Larkin feared the loss of breath
And, in Aubade
Played out his fears.
Whilst others hide inside
Their art
The fear that lurks within their heart.
When I found a young lady named Lin
Hiding in my kitchen bin
I said, with a sigh,
“I’m an open minded guy,
But to hide in my bin is a sin!”.
You called him, who does lack
The capacity to answer back
A “parasite”.
Whilst its undoubtedly true
That you have a right
To your point of view,
I do wonder what use are you
To society But, out of propriety
Of course I didn’t say that . . .
When a young lady of an ancient profession
Said, “sir, I must make a shocking confession,
Do you know
A bishop Jo?”,
I replied, “dear madam, please show some discretion!”.
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or maybe
They can not be said
Meaningfully by me.
As does nearly always happen
My train stopped, dead
At Clapham
(Though not for its proper, brief
Stay). We did not pull away.
What can be said
About grief
(Not experienced by me)?
Perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry.
When, that evening I came back
The track at Clapham
Was clear.
We made good time.
Though a drear
Thought did cross my mind,
But I find
That some things can not easily be said
In rhyme
By me, as I sit here, warm
Thinking of the ajacent platform
And how our train stopped, dead,
But, perhaps some things should not be said
In poetry,
Or at least by me.
A young man whose name is Lee
Has a degree in philosophy.
He is extremely clever
And married to Heather,
And he serves a mean cream tea!
I met a girl in
A sequin
Top. Being blind
I find
That I notice the tactile.
And sequins,
Being tactile
I can not deny,
That I
Thought on sins.
The binmen
Make
A lot of noise when
They take
The rubbish away
At 6:20 am.
My alarm ushers in
Another day
Of virtue and sin.
But what does it matter my friend
When all men
Are bound for the dustbin
In the end?
When a young lady named Leigh
Composed a poem about me,
Of course I was flattered,
But the fish wasn’t battered,
So we had steak for tea!
There once was a virile young man
Who, on seeing a passing pram,
Doffed his hat
To the mother,
And said, “I once had a lover,
Who looked a lot like that . . .!”.
K Morris - Poet 