Girls in short clothes
Have fun
In the summer sun.
Who knows
Where the summer goes
Girls in their Short Clothes
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Tag Archives: youth
At Summer’s Height
At summer’s height
Girls delight
In short frocks.
And, on occasions, choose
To lose
Their shoes
And socks.
For by going bare
To the summer air
They find there
The joy of youth.
At summer’s height
The poet takes delight
In girls who
Go without shoe
Or sock,
For they sense not
Time’s, impending, knock.
Pass
When old men make a pass
At the youthful lass,
I wonder whether
Either party ever
Look in the glass
And think, “all this will, one day, pass”
Nymphs will play
And hair turn to grey.
The woman (once girl)
Seeing autumn leaves whirl,
May consider the youthful lass,
And think, “all things must, one day, pass”.
A New, Unsullied Page
A new, unsullied page
Will be turned, as it must.
Love and lust.
Heels wear down with age.
2 Young Girls Talking About Shoes
2 young girls talking about shoes.
What will they choose
When they reach the age where
Few will care
What they choose
To do
With stocking or shoe?
It Is By No Means Unknown
It is by no means unknown
For a middle-aged man to flirt
With a much younger Joan
Who, in her short skirt
And stilettos high
Laughs at the clumsy pass
Of the receeding guy.
Her face in the glass
Is full
Of youthful vigour.
The dull
Tick tock
Of the bedside clock
Does not figure
In her thought, for she is but twenty
And there is plenty
Of time.
Much Has Been Sung
Much has been sung
Of women young
And middle-aged men who knew
Better, yet themselves flung
At the feet
Of maidens far from discreet …
So when I meet
Girls with high-heeled feet
I think with delight
Of the hot night,
Then sigh for that can not be,
For I am growing old you see …
Young Women
In short frocks
And with feet bare
They have no care
For clocks
That whir.
Youth
College girls whirl,
unthurl.
Blossoms borne on a spring breeze
Tease
And please
Young men
Who, forgetting book and pen
Turn
And learn
Full well
What no dull
Text can tell.
Passing
The sun comes and goes on a cold Autumn day
And I think on fun and how quickly it passeth away.
The flower that bloomed
Is soon entombed,
Or if it blooms still
A rill
Of tears
Marks it’s all too tender years.
K Morris - Poet 