When we met a group of young women
Who spoke of the great joys of sinning,
The good vicar Paul
Talked of the fall,
And the bishop he just couldn’t stop grinning!
The Joys of Sinning
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Tag Archives: rhyming poetry
In Morning Time
In morning time
I write a rhyme
Before the riot
Of the coming day
Takes my muse away.
I am clay
And hot lust.
But ere I am dust
I have words to say.
Perhaps a brief rhyme of mine
Of women and wine
And fleeting time may live on
When I am gone.
We all go from the gloom
Of the womb
To the gloom of the tomb.
But take delight
In sunlight, ere we go.
The Churchyard Yew
I stood with you
By the churchyard Yew
On Palm Sunday
As children and donkey
Made their way
Past the Yew
And into the church.
It was wonderful to see
The children happy.
But, just on the periphery
Of joy I often see
The Yew, which has survived
So many lives
Waiting for me.
Aphrodite
I have stood
And walked
Through the wood
And thought
On nymphs who bring delight
In woods
To passersby such as I.
I have sought for Aphrodite
Amidst the flowering tree
And have heard the birds
Sing in hopeful spring.
But now Autumn has come
And no Aphrodite
Sings to me.
A Bull in a China Shop
There once was a bull from Hull
Who said, “I am feeling quite dull.
I’ll go with Miss Hop
To that new China shop.
The one that’s just opened in Hull!”.
Lou’s Aesthetic
When a poet known as Miss Lou
Walked around town wearing only 1 shoe,
They said, “your verse is pathetic!
But we do like your aesthetic,
As you look great wearing 1 shoe!”.
Morbid Miss Beth
A most nervous young lady named Beth
Was known for her fear of death.
Her old aunt Louise
Gave a great sneeze,
And frightened that young lady to death!
With Apologies to T S. Eliot
The women come and go.
But talk not of Michaelangelo.
One drunk on booze
Leaves her stiletto shoes
Behind for Prufrock to find.
No mermaids sing for him.
But the girl was slim
And provided some delight
To a poet’s night.
When he turns to write
He finds that Miss Follett
Has taken his wallet,
And ponders on the Wasteland
Which a few understand!
Happy Easter!
A young lady who calls herself Honey
Likes to dress as the Easter bunny.
After food and wine
We crossed that line –
Then that bunny she stole my money!
Happy Easter to all of my readers!
Not Quite Adlestrop
Sitting on the platform,
Waiting for my train to stop,
I thought of Adlestrop.
I yawned.
Someone lit a cigarette.
Noone complained
And no authority figure came.
I hated that cigarette
And prayed for a train.
Yes I remember Adlestrop
And the poet’s name.
—
The above poem came to me as I sat at Gipsy Hill railway station in south-east London. I doubt the gentleman who shared his cigarette with those on the platform (including me), has heard of Edward Thomas. I suspect he has no care for poetry. He certainly had no consideration for his fellow commuters.
K Morris - Poet 