K. Morris's Blog, page 525

Shoe Size

You
Take a size 4 to five shoe.
I take a 10 to 11.
Heaven
Is an imagined place,
Although when my face
Does flush
(I blush
To say)
Heaven does not seem that far away
For me, but my shoe
Will not fit you
And we both agree
That yours are too small for me.

Keats had his Nightingale

Keats had his Nightingale, which made him think of death.
I have my owl, which brings to mind Macbeth.
Tis a different name
For the same
Thing.

The morning birds sing
Replacing the owl’s cry
And I
Ponder on Keats, who is remembered still
And wonder will
My owl survive
Long after I am alive.

There was a young lady named Lou

There was a young lady named Lou
Who lost her high heel shoe.
When it was found under my bed
Unprintable words where said,
But that’s strictly between me and you!

LETTER TO MY SON

Only god (if he exists) can forgive such things.

Beauty Bellezza Beauté

Letter To My Son

(Ilse Weber – 1903-1944).

My dear boy, three years ago today
You were sent into the world alone.
I still see you, at the station in Prague,
how you cry from the compartment, and hesitate.
You lean your brown head against me
and how you beg; let me stay with you!
That we let you go, seemed hard for you —
You were just eight, and small and delicate.
And as we left for home without you,
I felt, my heart wou...

As I walk through the churchyard

As I walk through the churchyard,
Along this hard
Path,
I laugh
For although
The day Is cold, those below
Do not know
That it is so

The Utopian Waits For A Bright Dawn

The utopian waits for a bright dawn
To break,
While dystopians warn
Of a grey
Morn,
And we awake
To the same old day

There was a young lady named Louise

There was a young lady named Louise
Who swallowed a hive of honey bees.
They stung her real bad
But she wasn’t at all sad
As at least they made her sneeze!

There was a young man named Frank

There was a young man named Frank
Who worked in a very old bank.
He stole lots of money
To give to his honey
And his cell was cold and dank.

The Lady Charlotte

It is said that the magpie
Steals shiny trinkets. I
Am left pondering on why
At a single shot from Cupid’s bow
Some men go
Quite mad and embrace
The silk and lace
Of the lady Charlotte
Who, in her scarlet
Dress
Has led the fool and the sage
(In every age)
To confess.
Ere they return again,
To their pain
And Charlotte’s gain.

There was a young lady named Bess

There was a young lady named Bess
Who decided her sins to confess.
I advised her not to do so
As it would end in woe
And I kept her little black dress …