When a young lady named Miss Moon
Trusted me with all her secrets yesterday afternoon,
I told her about Lou
Who works in a zoo
And moonlights as a stripper on Saturday afternoons!
Secrets
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Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
I Hear the Sound
I hear the sound
Of timeless windchimes
As workmen hammer away.
Sometimes the profound
Is hard to say
So poets rhyme
Of windchimes
In late August
For all this must
Pass away.
A Poet Named Cotton
There once was a poet named Cotton
Whose poetry has long since been forgotten.
I once met a pig
Who didn’t give a fig
For me or the poetry of Cotton!
Bill Who Lived on a High Hill
There once was a man named Bill
Who lived on a very high hill.
His young mistress Sally
Lived in a valley
And his wife she lived with Bill!
The Anarchic Wind
I am a plaything
In the arms
Of the whispering wind.
She has charms.
Her summer breeze teases
Bringing delight.
But those who fight
The wind
When she is wild
Will find themselves a helpless child
Locked tight in arms
That have lost all their charms
And will pray
For the ungovernable wind
To stay her anarchic play
And the summer breeze
To gently tease once more.
But put no store
In that wild fickle thing,
The eternal wind.
The Leaves Lie
The leaves lie thicker on the path
Than the last time I passed.
I can not count them.
But, like we men
All leaves fall
And rhymes
End
Intellectualise
Walking through the summer rain
I think of you with your philosopher’s brain.
Our conversation is always respectable
And almost always focuses on the purely intellectual.
Often I wish I could see
Behind your philosophy
And into your heart.
My poetry is part of me.
But my art
And all your philosophy
Are only part
Of you and me.
Is there more for me to see
Beyond your intellectuality?
Will I ever find the woman behind
Your clever chat
Of this and that?
Conversation runs dry
And I wonder why
I over intellectualise your opaque eyes
And what lies behind …
Dating a Lap Dancer
I am dating a beautiful young lap dancer
And sometimes I like to romance her.
When I have money
She calls me hunny,
But when I don’t she calls me chancer!
Thoughts in Late August
My dog has no conception
Of my introspection
As he rolls on grass
In dying August.
I think on the past
While he takes pleasure
In the sweet summer weather.
Knowledge can be a fearful thing.
I know my spring
Has long passed.
Yet my friend makes me smile
For a brief while
As unaware that all things pass
He enjoys the grass.
Pistols at Dawn!
When a man said, “its pistols at dawn
To take place on the vicar’s fine lawn”.
I said, “my dear Lou
I won’t be joining you.
I’ll leave it to you and Miss Dawn!”
When a man said, “its pistols at dawn
To take place on the vicar’s fine lawn”.
I said, “my dear Lou
I won’t be joining you.
I’ll leave it to you and Miss Dawn!”
K Morris - Poet 