K. Morris's Blog, page 5

A Poet Named Cotton

There once was a poet named Cotton

Whose poetry has long since been forgotten.

I once met a pig

Who didn’t give a fig

For me or the poetry of Cotton!

Bill Who Lived on a High Hill

There once was a man named Bill

Who lived on a very high hill.

His young mistress Sally

Lived in a valley

And his wife she lived with Bill!

The Anarchic Wind

I am a plaything

In the arms

Of the whispering wind.

She has charms.

Her summer breeze teases

Bringing delight.

But those who fight

The wind

When she is wild

Will find themselves a helpless child

Locked tight in arms

That have lost all their charms

And will pray

For the ungovernable wind

To stay her anarchic play

And the summer breeze

To gently tease once more.

But put no store

In that wild fickle thing,

The eternal wind.

The Leaves Lie

The leaves lie thicker on the path

Than the last time I passed.

I can not count them.

But, like we men

All leaves fall

And rhymes

End

Intellectualise

Walking through the summer rain

I think of you with your philosopher’s brain.

Our conversation is always respectable

And almost always focuses on the  purely intellectual.

 

 

Often I wish I could see

Behind your philosophy

And into your heart.

 

My poetry is part of me.

But my art

And all your philosophy

Are only part

Of you and me.

 

Is there more for me to see

Beyond your intellectuality?

Will I ever find the woman behind

Your clever chat

Of this and that?

 

Conversation runs dry

And I wonder...

Dating a Lap Dancer

I am dating a beautiful young lap dancer

And sometimes I like to romance her.

When I have money

She calls me hunny,

But when I don’t she calls me chancer!

 

Thoughts in Late August

My dog has no conception

Of my introspection

As he rolls  on grass

In dying August.

I think on the past

While he takes pleasure

In the sweet summer weather.

 

 

Knowledge can be a fearful thing.

I know my spring

Has long passed.

Yet my friend makes me smile

For a brief while

As unaware that all things pass

He enjoys the grass.

Pistols at Dawn!

When a man said, “its pistols at dawn

To take place on the vicar’s fine lawn”.

I said, “my dear Lou

I won’t be joining you.

I’ll leave it to you and Miss Dawn!”

When a man said, “its pistols at dawn

To take place on the vicar’s fine lawn”.

I said, “my dear Lou

I won’t be joining you.

I’ll leave it to you and Miss Dawn!”

 

Autumn Days

As I stood

In the leaf-strewn wood

Listening to birdsong,

I heard the leaves

Falling from trees

And thought how short

Is our birdsong.

 

 

And the Autumn breeze

Scented with leaves

Spoke of the joy

Of temperate days.

 

 

Yes, everything must decay.

But autumn lawns

Are covered in acorns

And children play

As I once did

When I hid

Amidst these Autumn trees

And fallen leaves.

Temporary

The ageless wind

In these waving trees

Whispers to me

Of eternity.

 

Passing by a lorry

I smile

At that metal thing.

So temporary.

While the wild wind

Is forever free.