K. Morris's Blog

Careless Miss White

A careless young lady named Miss White

Often falls in the street at night.

A kindly vicar called Paul

Said, “many young women fall”,

As he picked her up last night …!

Progress

Some speak of the inevitability of progress.

While I rhyme of springtime

And trees that bud in ancient  woods.

But autumn will surely come

And the trees undress.

 

 

Bare branches breed despair in some.

But spring sun will come

And buds appear in gardens and woods.

For nature has her cycle

Of death and rebirth

And cares not for what

We label as progress.

The Dangers of Blackmail

When a young man named Lee

Went and tried to blackmail me,

I gave a big smile

And said, “meet Mr crocodile!”

Which ended that blackmail and Lee …!

Assaulted by a Tree!

In the churchyard, something fell from a tree

And nearly hit me

There is a time for composing fine rhyme

About graveyards and mortality.

And the occasional limerick can be great fun.

But trees assaulting me!

That makes me run!

Paul Who Jumped from a Very High Wall

There was a young man named Paul

Who jumped off a very high wall.

He aimed for custard

But landed in mustard!

Which was far too hot for Paul!

Thoughts in Autumn

Fallen leaves

Blown by Autumn’s breeze

Follow me

Into my residence.

 

 

There can be

No pretence

In these piling leaves

Of immortality.

 

 

But others will hear

The breeze

And see autumn leaves

Blowing near

In other years

When I am gone,

And as one

With leaves.

Never Ending

I have climbed the never ending stair

Leading nowhere.

And explored corridors with so many doors.

And, on opening them

Have found myself in the same place again.

 

I have savoured many a sweet perfume

In bedrooms.

But the scents all mingle and become  one.

And soon are gone.

 

 

Yet still I walk another empty corridor

And, opening a door

Find myself where I was before.

With another pretty face.

And me slipping further from grace

Miss Fox and the Telephone Box

There once was a young lady called Miss Fox

Who placed lots of ads in a phone box.

An elderly vicar named Glyn

Spoke of wickedness and sin

As he called Miss Fox from that telephone box …!

 

Being Discrete

I met a young lady of a certain profession

Who said, “sir, do please show some discretion!”,

Her name is Miss Bess

And here is her address –

But no! I think I should show more discretion!

Forestry

I listen dutifully as he speaks of forestry.

A soft breeze whispers in trees

And I am far away where wind plays

Through the forest and through me.