K. Morris's Blog, page 381

I Smell New-Mown Grass

I smell new-mown grass
As I pass
By the field
Where school children play,
Then pass
Through the Churchyard, where all must,
One day,
Yield to dust.

When A Young Lady Whose Name Is Bland

When a young lady whose name is Bland
Said, “your wish is my command”,
And I said, “please, spend the night”,
She replied, “that would be such sweet delight,
But my bouncer boyfriend, he just wouldn’t understand!”.

This Morning Whilst Eating Toast

This morning whilst eating toast
I was joined by a rude ghost.
When I said, “I didn’t invite you!”,
He replied, “that’s perfectly true,
But I’m extremely fond of toast!”.

—

This morning whilst eating toast
I was joined by a rude ghost.
When I said, “I didn’t invite you!”,
He replied, “that’s perfectly true,
But I’ve come to read your post!”.

Sex Tourist

In a hot land
Man can not command
The sun,
But those of a certain mind
Will find
That fun
Under a foreign sun
May be had
With a girl or lad.
Though the trip enjoyed
Is a life
Destroyed. Yes, man can command
A smile
While at home the wife
Or girlfriend does trust, or pretend
That she does not know.
And, when he does go
To the pub on his return
His mates may learn
Midst laughter
Of fun
Under the sun
While disaster
Unlike Banquo’s ghost
Does not spoil the feast.

I Think Of You In Dream

I think of you in dream,
Walking barefoot, along the sand
But you are forever out of reach
For ’tis impossible to command a dream.

Miss Bland

I know a middle-aged lady named Bland
Who plays in a traditional brass band.
She is fond of young men
And has a toy boy called Ken,
Who plays along with Miss Bland . . .

Cramp

I wake
And feel an ache
In my bones.
I must
Engage with cramp
For age
Has left a stamp
On me
And dust
Hides in corners.

You may
Clear the dust away
But ’tis a never ending task
Which, at last
Will defeat
The best of men.
And the ache reminds thee
And me
That, in the end
The dust will win, my friend

A Young Lady Whose Name Is Bland

A young lady whose name is Bland
Said, “your wish is my command”,
But when I said, “iron my clothes”,
She hit me on the nose.
Young ladies I will never understand!

When Poets Don’t Read Poetry – by Melissa Donovan…

Unlike the author of the original post, I began reading poetry prior to composing it. I have happy memories of leafing through various anthologies, including Palgrave’s Golden Treasury and the Oxford Book of English verse, (the latter has been superceeded by The New Oxford Book of English Verse). I agree with Melisa that its difficult to write poetry unless one has first read the work of other poets. Kevin

Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog

on Writing Forward:

I started writing poetry just...

I Know A Young Man Named Hogg

I know a young man named Hogg
Who composed a poem about the smog.
His work is too dense
And fails to make sense,
And he lost me deep in the fog!