"morris" poems
Those happy Morris dancers make for a happy sight
They wear bright scarlet ribbons and their shirts and trousers white,
They clash their sticks whilst dancing and you hear the timbers ring
Though 'twould seem that Morris dancing is not a female thing.
I've never seen a female Morris dancer I stand corrected if I'm wrong
It has it's roots in England and to England it belong
And I hope that Morris dancing will not go the way of rhyme
That in a changing World it won't lose out to time.
They brought their culture with them from England far away
A culture perhaps fading like many of the old cultures are today
With the old dances of Europe I see a link somewhere
And sad to hear that Morris dancers are now becoming rare.
At the Dandenong Ranges festival east of Melbourne they perform every year
And after in the ***** tent they laugh as they drink their beer,
They brought a thing of beauty when they brought their dancing here
And to those marvellous Morris dancers let us raise our glass of cheer.
Morris dancing vary from English Village to Village or so I have been told
Though the times they are a changing and fading are the ways of old
But those marvellous Morris dancers may they dance forever more
In the sunshine of Australia far from England's rainy shore.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:17 PM UTC
I can’t stop thinking about you.
What Voodoo did you put on me that I can’t try?
I see your lovely face in the blue-black silhouette of the night sky,
In that faded dream where your love made me cream.
I can’t stop thinking about you
I’d like to know how you made me want to need you.
Remembering your touch, your hands on me, your kiss to me,
Like a need for a drug, to calm me, I can’t take withdrawal, feed me.
You put your love in me, real slow, deep in me.
I’d like to know just when I opened for you.
Too late, there I go, my cry for you… yeah you know,
My body shaking as you hold me close, there you go!
Now I finally realize that you are my true love….
Because you are all I keep thinking of and that
I need you each and every day; I’d like to know,
Since you got me, just what the hell did you do to make me stay?
How you got me this way, got me sprung, looking for excuses just to be near you.
Just to be close to you, see you in reality; see you in my dreams…
Fiction or not I have to have you or I can’t breathe,
You are the air that I need; I live for you, constantly thinking about you.
Can’t get enough of you; **** come fill my need with you!
Tell me your secret, babe, that thing you do to make me need you.
Remembering your touch, your hands on me, your kiss to me…
As I give it to you; it’s what you’ve wanted from me!
I can’t stop thinking about you.
I wonder… just wonder what it would be like; you in me this way.
In that faded dream as your love made me cream,
Like a need for a drug, to calm me, can’t take withdrawal, come give it to me.
Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
I thought I might be a musician
Mom couldn’t afford my lessons
My eyesight wasn’t great
I couldn’t read notes fast enough
Practicing annoyed the family
I only managed last chair, 2nd violins
But still
I got to play in High School concerts
In shiny dresses with glitter in my hair
However
I haven’t held a violin in years
I loaned mine to a Bluegrass band
The leader died - and it was gone
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought I might become a dancer
But my fingers can not touch the floor
I couldn’t kick much higher than my waist
Choreography was hard for me to learn
I had the stamina if not the skill
My partner wanted someone else
But still
I danced on stage in a college play
And Morris Danced at the Old Globe Theatre
However
I’ve forgotten how to keep the beat
And all the dance floor moves I made
I’m too self conscious now to try
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I fancied I could be a singer
I knew the words to all the songs
And I could keep the melody in tune
But I had a voice with no vibrato
And the quality was thin
My range was very limited
But still
I sang Blueberry Hill at a talent show
In a black lame’ dress and surprised a few
However
I couldn’t get the hang of harmony
And found I fit best in a choir
My family wouldn’t hear my solos
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I thought that I was born an actress
I practically got that one right
I had a lead in an Ibsen play
And toured the state with Macbeth
But Hollywood was one big casting couch
And I could see no way around it
But still
I got to be on TV shows
Winning games and merchandise
However
I sold the Firebird Convertible I won
I needed rent money more than a car
And rules allow you only three shows in a lifetime
≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
I always thought I was a poet
I started young and never stopped
But family ignored and scoffed
Then I got trapped inside my mirror
And only wrote when all was beak
Somebody said my stuff was dreary
But still
I stumbled on the HP website
And found a group who like the words I write
However
When I read the others’ writes
I realize how limited my skills
And fight the need to run away and hide.
∞
It seems I dabbled in all the arts
Looking for the one that fit me
And finding they all needed alteration
And I never had the proper needle
∞
Still, a moment in the sun
Is better than a lifetime in the shade
I had a taste of everything
Though the banquet was not mine.
ljm
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
I could turn away,
But then id have to pay,
My happiness may be the price,
But when it comes to that i think ill roll the dice.
Lets give it a chance,
And maybe just survive this crazy little dance.
Cause the smile spread wide across my face,
Well maybe you cant tell,
But hunny, i dont want my space.
It may be a secret, nobody can know,
But the day will come when that wont even show.
Yeah it *****
But oh well, lifes just tough.
Sneaking around will never be easy,
But baby when you kiss me, i get queezy.
I like you alot,
And as far as what i want,
Your right on the dot.
Isaac i want this to work,
Hey!who knows? Maybe secrecy will turn out to be a perk
By: Kaity Morris
March 2,2012
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
When did news parody
stop being funny?
Was it somewhere between
Alan Jackson’s 9/11 cash-in
and Donald Trump’s hair?
Was it BoJo stranded on a zipline over London,
or Cameron’s alleged porcine relations
(bizarrely black-mirroring fiction)?
When did the news
start doing Chris Morris’ job for him?
When did they start
pre-satirising the headlines?
“No evidence mermaids exist,” says US Government.
Swimming pool evacuated after prosthetic leg is mistaken for **********
Robots follow Marco Rubio to South Carolina.
I swear, I didn’t
make any of those up.
The actors on Saturday Night Live
are more statesmanlike
than the Presidential Primary Candidates they’re lampooning.
How the hell do they breed these
creatures? These gurning,
overgrown foetuses with their
conveniently dead ****** sisters to get
all wet-eyed and tumescent over,
their boomingly hollow controversy and
their total, catastrophic
crashes of personality.
These loathsome
organic constructs who would seem
more relatable and trustworthy if
their image consultants made them wear
Nixon masks for every
public appearance.
When did it all become
this strange, sick spoof
of itself?
Is there no one left in Britain who can make a sandwich?
Man dressed as penguin receives more votes than the Liberal Democrats.
Piers Morgan given jail time for illegally hacking ‘phones and gloating about it.
Okay.
I made the last one up.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 6:07 AM UTC
Why did Aphrodite take away
The man I truly love?
She planted false accusations
To make him see only
The bad that were surrounding me.
She planted me in places that
Were utterly cold and untrue;
Only to make my love see me—
A vindictive being with a soul so cruel.
She took his heart with her hand
That went straight through and
Banished all the good that
I knew was true.
She made him believe all the
Lies and deceit and made him
Walk the Earth never wanting me,
Never needing me, she; Aphrodite
The Goddess of Love, made the
Man I love never to love me.
Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
You see a kaleidoscopic spongesque speck pushed into a blur over your vision,
Sitting on air & feathers.
You sit on air rather than feathers,
Incased in drywall,
Surrounded by your worldly possessions,
Drowning in sweat,
Suffocating from air,
The hum of coupled fans waltzes’ into your skull,
A metallic mind prints mass media
Via a melodramatic faux-vintage situation into your skull,
There’s the pitter-patter of post-traumatic pondering in your skull,
A Mexican Coca-Cola clutched in your left hand,
Phillip-Morris owns the pocket on your breast so that they sit closest to your heart,
Pabst Blue Ribbon has carved rights to your liver,
You have an over analytic sense of humor and well-being.
Now you decode your day.
Now you chastise your intuition for lustful engagements with shadow people.
Though you have no qualms with this,
You enjoy yourself from time to time.
But cannot you imagine a more climatic proposition,
In a less disposable universe?
Where corners are cut,
Shoving dignity & quality out the door
Is where impractical risks are made.
However,
All you ponder now is the blur pushed into the edge of your eye.
Perhaps it is a microorganism rendezvousing with another microorganism.
Though they would have no concept of predetermination.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:32 PM UTC
Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
1.9k
Stuck inside my head
This is where I fled
I can't find my way out
The bars are much to stout
I scream and shout
I fling about
Searching throughout
There just is no rout
I'm stuck inside my head
So much is left unsaid
I've lost so many friends
In here there is no wins
Going round the bend
No one comprehends
Thoughts just condemn
Slowly sink and descend
I'm stuck inside my head
This is from where I bled
The bars were just to stout
I couldn't find my way out
©Pauline Morris
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
There goes Morris Stonework and Ramada Inn which makes me think of Ramadan which reminds me I’m hungry. I can’t decide if I’d rather reminisce about your eyes or your ankles. You have cute ears too. I’m getting closer to you through money – give it a few more years and gird your ***** - it’s entirely possible to have one’s heartbroken even when one is expecting it. A surprise goodbye, almost mythical, with an audience of produce, I never recovered the breath that caught in my throat. Flying through southern North Carolina and fast women (the green hair. “Punk”) and the breath is beating out in pulses and centuries. It’s 38 miles until I lose everything. You can’t **** something that’s already dead so leave my soul alone (please). Sorry, I’m over reacting. “We quiver we quiver,” the grass says to the water. But I don’t know the riddle and the answer isn’t online. If you were wondering, I wish for you every day. My heart is an idiot (I’ll never take responsibility for what I can hide behind personification). Maybe I’ll start charging him rent. Looking for something to break? Dude, you’re a *** And my thoughts fly apart- Shall his sins be forgiven? Ice skating on frozen parking lots with army surplus coats. Mostly because we want the passing cars to say – how cool, how young, how willowy her thighs – But see there’s a problem, are you just in my head? The tinkling gypsy rhythm is carrying me away. Urgently comes the pad of bare feet and the swish of soft wrists. Coconut oil drinks me up. My stereo whispers, -the magic of ignorance is never knowing what came before these cookie-cutter houses.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
Said darling daughter unto me:
"oh Dad, how funny it would be
If you had gone to Mexico
A score or so of years ago.
Had not some whimsey changed your plan
I might have been a Mexican.
With lissome form and raven hair,
Instead of being fat and fair.
"Or if you'd sailed the Southern Seas
And mated with a Japanese
I might have been a squatty girl
With never golden locks to curl,
Who flirted with a painted fan,
And tinkled on a samisan,
And maybe slept upon a mat -
I'm very glad I don't do that.
"When I consider the romance
Of all your youth of change and chance
I might, I fancy, just as well
Have bloomed a bold Tahitian belle,
Or have been born . . . but there - ah no!
I draw the line - and Esquimeaux.
It scares me stiff to think of what
I might have been - thank God! I'm not."
Said I: "my dear, don't be absurd,
Since everything that has occurred,
Through seeming fickle in your eyes,
Could not a jot be otherwise.
For in this casual cosmic biz
The world can be but what it is;
And nobody can dare deny
Part of this world is you and I.
Or call it fate or destiny
No other issue could there be.
Though half the world I've wandered through
Cause and effect have linked us two.
Aye, all the aeons of the past
Conspired to bring us here at last,
And all I ever chanced to do
Inevitably led to you.
To you, to make you what you are,
A maiden in a Morris car,
IN Harris tweeds, an airedale too,
But Anglo-Saxon through and through.
And all the good and ill I've done
In every land beneath the sun
Magnificently led to this -
A country cottage and - your kiss."
1.8k
Abandoned.
The word to describe how I'm feeling,
like maybe taking your attention would be stealing.
my tears pouring down that pre-made lane,
the only way to cope with the pain,
i dont know how else to stay sain.
I don't get it, i used to be your main
</3
By: Kaity Morris
September 7, 2012
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
He lifted his hand, it shook.
He leaned towards speech, halting.
A stroke confined his feet
to shuffled, prayerful, praises.
The day pushed dusk through blinds.
“How you buh, beautiful?” (a rasp).
“You take your meds?” the nurse said.
“How you… to… today?”, finger pointing
(reminded of it's hook).
She smiled and smoothed his bed
"You flirtin’ again? You bad man.”
Once he'd made a vow, an oath
in Auschwitz-Birkenau:
Forced to pick gold from charred teeth,
he pledged to sidestep death… to live!
And walk - in love -
to the Sabbath.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets
Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
John gives large views about the last few dances.
And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,
A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --
Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.
1.7k
Isn't every life
Fragile?
Isn't all love
Fragile?
Aren't we all
Fragile?
And as we're all
Fragile,
If hope is so
Fragile,
Then how do we
Survive?
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC
The desert
Is dry,
My thirst
Unsatisfied,
May the dew
From the thighs,
Of the motherland
Amplify.
When my lips
Reach to sip
& my tongue
Is fortified,
I cannot stop
Until nature ****
And our beings
Emulsify.
To the just Lord
She crys,
With
Sweet agony
In her eyes,
My mouth
I open wide,
To reclaim
What is rightfully
My prize.
Our hands
Clasped
&
Unified,
We give
Praise
Towards
The sky,
Once her
Convulsions
Turn
Petrified,
And I listen
To her bosoms
Beat
A Morris code
Lullaby,
My heart
Is
now on
High,
So this old soul
No longer needs to be
Spry,
For the flesh
Has had iT’s fill
And I now
Am ready to die…
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Do you know what it means when
you say, "I'll never find someone like you?."
Love is always going to be love in one person.
Love is different colours, different emotions;
Love is a time traveler, but no matter
How many times you find love or love finds you--
There is only One of one person who'll love you.
They're irreplaceable, untraceable, one of a kind.
They are always going to be them--who they are!
They'll have different colours, different emotions.
They're time travelers and no matter
How many times you find them or they find you--
There is only One of them who'll love you.
Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
This poem is for the girls and guys in limbo
Somewhere between love and lust
Up the dark road
Inside the cold box
This ones for you.
For u sweet dreamer
For the girls lusting for the boys who have only followed the trail of perfection
This is for the nerdy guys
Afraid of the way she flips her hair
And his own shadow
This is for the friend zone
Those who tip toe cautiously
Reading mixed signs
And deciphering smoke signals
This is for you
This is for heartachers
And the people that will never know there own doing.
This is for the girls who say no
And for the boys who don't know there power
This is for I love you's
Whispered under breath
This is for the crushes
And the people that love them
This is for the traded glances
And the misinterpretation
This for the hours wasted
And tears that have fallen
Fallen long enough to build you an ocean
Like a mote
to place around your heart
This ones for you dark forecasters
And glass half fullers
This ones for the poets and the phone calls
This is for the obsessing
The morris code blessing
And this ones for the confession
Those that take there pride and tuck it between their legs
This is for you
Stand tall
Tall enough to crane your neck to see the horizon
Because this may look different on the other side.
This is for the hopefuls
Those who love and still believe
This is for the love lyrics written
And those that repeat there songs
This is for you.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 6:28 AM UTC
You can’t hurt me anymore,
For I am invincible;
Away from you I am capable,
Capable to succeed and become free.
You can’t hurt me anymore,
For I have done what
Some find hard to grasp;
I found the strength to say
“Enough!” at last.
I’ve put you so far behind me--
I’m too far gone to be reached.
Only concentrating in what will be
So that I can believe.
Living in the present to prepare
For my future.
I’ve left the past all up to you
Because you can’t touch me at last.
You can’t hurt me anymore,
No more tale-tell bruises
To explain or the unbearable pain,
No more purples and blues that used
To cover my face, only happiness
And breathable air upon which
I now embrace.
No, you can’t hurt me anymore,
You can’t touch me anymore,
Today I’m the conqueror because
I’ve left you back there
The day I walked out the door.
Creative Writings - Reina J. Morris
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
There was a long road
from the church to the farm house
and ten acres of land was never enough to disappear
but we tried our very best
the fields spanned out in wooden fence borders
until they met with dirt side roads
sheep, cows, and horses
and mud tracked jeans
we built dens in the woods
out of whatever we could scavenge
with wheat hanging limp from lips
we graduated to the days of the pretender
and started memorizing names like
RJ Reynolds and Phillip Morris
our fingers grew as yellow as our teeth
Tobacco Road Hobos
sticking up a thumb
with a Kamel Red pinched between index and middle
that's the gun metal blue smoke screen
rattling lungs in the morning
scorched throats at night
and a pair of mud tracked jeans
Kings of Tobacco Road
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Eve and Steve
love drinking sherry
getting merry so dose Mary
really scary, she has eyes for all the guys.
Jane told Wayne that Jim´s a pain
and then ran off with his mate Shane.
Gary is the one for Carrie,
the one she really wants to marry
and Doris who´s a florist really fancies Boris
whose older brother Norris
drives a nineteen sixties Morris.
Now, Pat who lives in her own flat
has eyes for Jim because he´s slim
she really has a thing for him,
and her friend Sandie´s sister Mandy
is going out with a bloke called Randy,
whose friend is Wayne....Sandie´s latest flame.
Scary Mary longs for John who´s cousin
Peter is dating Rita, she´s Steve´s youngest
sister, his older sister Pam is going to marry Sam
whose brother Terry loves drinking sherry............
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC