I met a young lady named Green
Who lives in a washing machine.
We went at great speed
To fulfill that girl’s need,
And then I awoke from that dream!
Miss Green Who Lives in a Washing Machine
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Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
Surface
A shadow in the bathroom glass.
What I see
Is the public me.
And when I pass
There will be
No me to see
Merely soulless glass.
Yet reflected back
In the verse I leave behind
Some may find
In my rhyme
The black
And white we call art.
Now in the mirror I see
The surface me.
And not my heart.
A Man Who Calls Himself James
A man who calls himself James
Is known by many other names.
Some call him Nevile
And others the Devil –
I’ve seen James dance in flames!
Sirens and Birds
I heard sirens and birds
As I stood
In the darkening wood.
Later, when the sirens where gone
The birds sang on
As I passed through
The churchyard
Pondering on what is true
Bare
“The trees are bare”, you said.
The sun shone
And our 2 dogs ran on
Unaware their autumn
Must come. And a gentle breeze
Blew through grasses.
When young lovers kiss amidst spring flowers
In their urgent need
They fail to heed
How our hours are fragile as glass.
Spring and summer pass.
We come to autumn
And the bare tree speaks of mortality.
Table Dancing
I know a young lady named Spink
Who is extremely fond of a drink.
Her and Miss Mabel
Dance on the table
When we gentlemen buy them a drink …
Indifference
I have been kissed
By passing lips.
They soon move on,
And are gone.
I have met ships
At midnight
Who sail at dawn.
How forlorn
Is the cold light
Of morn
After a sultry night
Of pleasure
In indifferent weather.
Worms
When I am gone
My poetry may live on.
And when I go
Others will know
Whether it is so.
While in the cold ground
There is nothing profound
For worms have no time
For fleeting rhyme.
But love to dine …
When I Met the Infamous Professor Moriarty
When I met the infamous Professor Moriarty
Who said, “come along to my party!”
The great Homes was there
With a big dancing bear.
And Watson danced nude at that party!
Sometimes, in Dreams
Sometimes, in dreams, it seems
To me
That what I feel and see
Is reality.
But, when I awake
I realise my mistake,
And partake in what we designate as reality.
Yet I may dream
And the solid things I feel and see
May merely seem to be
As Poe saw long ago
K Morris - Poet 