K. Morris's Blog, page 366

There Once Was A Virile Young Man

There once was a virile young man
Who, on seeing a passing pram,
Doffed his hat
To the mother,
And said, “I once had a lover,
Who looked a lot like that . . .!”.

My Blog Is A Place Of Life And Death

My blog is a place of life and death.
A few who have commented here have lost their breath
And gone to a great, silent house
Where no word is heard
And the click of mouse
Is, forever staid.
They have their part played
In the blogasphere
And now are memorialised here
Through their comments, some may choose to peruse.
But should you click on a link to their blog, it may well be dead,
Or say
“He passed away
And this site his friends retain so that you may
Read what he, who is dead,
Once said”.

O...

Ghosts under Lamp Posts

Do lamp posts
Show, by their fitful glow
The ghosts
Of sinners long ago?
And, on seeing that fitful glow
Do dying men go
Back, down that dark track
And perceive
Ghosts under lamp posts.
And, if so
Do they grieve
For the money spent
On cheap scent
Long ago?
Perhaps it is so,
But That, I can not know.

When A Young Man Named Coker

When a young man named Coker
Said, “your poetry ’tis mediocre”,
I gazed into the fire
And replied, “do you admire
“This poker, my late friend coker?”

When I Die

When I die
I wish to do so
Hearing the virile
Wind blow,
And not in some sterile
Hospital wing
Where the living dead
Go to die
And hear not
The wind sing.

Muddy Revisited

“Muddy” first appeared here in 2016. Looking at the state of British politics, and the world in general, I feel impelled to share this poem again.

—

Thoughts muddy
I will forsake
And take
Refuge in my study,
Among poets who speak
Words that endure beyond a week.

I shall sit listening to birdsong.
The long
Summer days willimperceptibly turn
Into Autumn. I shall the world spurn
And yearn
For Keat’s Nightingale.

A Young Lady Who Comes From Kent

A young lady who comes from Kent
Has all her money spent
On expensive gifts for me,
Which is strange, you see,
I’m married to a girl from Ghent!

Change

Changing faces.
So many graces
But, always, the same change.

Exchange of faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Passing faces.
So many graces,
But, always, the same change.

Rearrange of faces.
Long lost graces,
But, the same, inevitable, change.

A Young Man Named Matt

A young man named Matt
Owns a very strange hat.
It mews and it purrs,
And its covered in furs,
And he calls that hat a cat!

On Going To Bed Last Night

On going to bed last night
I met a young woman in white.
When I said “are you a ghost?”
She offered me hot buttered toast,
And the stars they winked last night!