Sometimes I find my mind
Obsessed with verse.
It is a curse.
But, what is even worse,
I find my brain
Fails to retain
What I wrote
In earnest or joke!
Copyright: K. Morris.
My Brain.
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Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
There is a Garden.
There is a garden
With artificial leaves
Where people memorialise the dead.
.
It has been said
That these leaves
Represent those long dead
.
There is a wall
Showing all must fall
Yet there is hope
For one must grope for hope
Even in the cold ground.
Copyright: K. Morris.
My name it is Alice!
There was a young lady of Crystal Palace
Who went by the name of Alice.
They said to her Claire,
“You should take great care!”,
She said, “my name it is Alice!”
Old Father Time Got Stuck in a Rhyme
Old father time
Got caught in a rhyme
And couldn’t get away.
He knew not
What to say or do
As his hands
Got stuck with glue.
Lost Time
The wind is eternal.
It blows and my thought goes
Scuttering like dead leaves.
I heard the clock’s tick tock.
Should I grieve
For lost time?
There is no time
Only my temporary body clock
Which will, one day, stop.
My Head is Dead
My head is dead.
After a flash of electricity in my brain
Am I the same?
My head feels dead.
I understand the words said, and can’t explain
Why it feels dead.
My head may not be dead.
I can interpret and explain.
Perhaps my memory is the same,
But my head feels dead.
Midnight Doors
Doors get knocked at midnight
To gentlemen’s delight.
While neighbours gossip, left and right …
Seizure
I felt no cold breath of Death
Nor the Reaper’s skeletal hand.
Yet he greeted me
And I mumbled and tumbled
And found myself on the cold ground
Where all are bound.
Death can command us all.
When he calls man must fall.
He greeted me in jest.
But he will tire of play
And I will find rest
For Death he ends all play.
After the Hospital
After the hospital
I walked in the rain again,
But did not regret the wet,
For the dead
Feel no rain.
I Know a Young Lady of Kampala
I know a young lady of Kampala
Who works in a massage parlour.
Her name it is Sky
And she’s so incredibly shy
And she works in a massage parlour …
K Morris - Poet 