Some women
I see in shoes
Caked in mud.
Such women
Are good.
So why do I choose
Those in high-heels,
Who flirt
But know not the noble dirt
Of fields?
When a girl’s perfume
Fills the room
It is easy to pretend
My friend
That we do not yield
To the good mud
Of the fields,
In the end.
Nymphs on pedestals
Are worshipped by fools
Who place
A pretty face
On high,
Then cry
When they
See that she
Is as he,
Merely, imperfect, clay
He spoke about a guy
Who tried to woo
A lady of 22.
And I,
Overheard every word
And wondered what it had to do
With him.
I don’t know,
Is it a sin
For a guy of 52
Or so,
To woo
A girl of 22?
I think
That if a guy
Of 52,
Wishes to buy
A drink
For a lady of 22
That it is nothing to do
With me or you.
“A fool and his money are soon parted”
The moralist will say. But, if that be true
And a man is brokenhearted,
I come back to
my original question, what has that to do
With me or you?
I think of you
Without shoe
Or sock,
But passion’s knock
Will never be heard
So I shall cease this empty word
Play and do something useful with my day.
But, when in the land
Of sleep,
You may creep
Into my head, for I can not command
The shadows of dreamland
Where passion unlocks
And girls lose
Their shoes
And socks …
A bangle
Given to me
By thee
Over wine
Did mine
Heart entangle
With thine.
Now I carry with me
Something of thee,
For a girl’s bangle
Does entangle
Thine heart
With mine.
A chance meet.
2 acquaintences greet
And eat.
That night
They did smile
And make polite
Conversation while,
In the background
Behind each word
Was heard
The tick tock
Of her biological clock
Her flirty conversation.
His anticipation
Grew, whilst through
Each word
Could be heard
Tick tock, tick tock.
A tentative invitation to come in
For coffee or tea.
They did chat
About this and that.
Then, she took her hat
And was gone,
Whilst the tick tock
Of the clock
At the head
Of his bed
Continued on,
Unloved
There are many ointments
For stings
And similar things.
And, for life’s disappointments
There is art,
Which, though it may not cause the heart
To sing
May, perchance, ease the sting
Of the she
Who rejects thee.
Lost in a girl’s eyes
A poet dies
In midnight sighs,
Yet in love’s dance,
Perchance, a poem is born
Do young women show interest in old men?
No, it is not usually so
Though when
Such men
Have money
Its queer
How a certain kind of honey
Will make herself
Most agreeable to the beer
Belly and receeding hair.
But how dare
You whisper “’tis his wealth that attracts her …”!
I know a young lady named Joan
Who is perfect in skin and bone.
Being deeply in love with me
We never disagree
And she lives on my smartphone!
K Morris - Poet 