K. Morris's Blog, page 326

I Met A Pretty Young Maid

I met a pretty young maid
Who said, “I’m far from staid!”.
I said, “my violin,
It speaks of sin,
And many a time I’ve played!”.

My Dog, Who I’ve Named Hegel

My dog, who I’ve named Hegel
Is extremely fond of a bagel.
Whilst my neighbour’s cat, called Marx,
Spends his days chasing fiery sparks,
And discussing dialectical materialism with Hegel!

The Point of Poetry

Why must I
Attempt to capture
Every rapture,
Or simple pleasure?
The weather
Is there to be enjoyed,
Be it fine or wet,
Yet
The joy of a beautiful day
May
So easily be destroyed
By a poor rhyme.

Time
Will not stay
For the poet who,
In rhyme
Describes her black stiletto shoe
And oh so short skirt,
(although they
Did nothing do,
But flirt).

The beauty of a Christine,
Or a Claire,
With their luxuriant hair
Survives, pristine,
On the page,
Whilst they,
And the poet
Age,
Turn grey.
Then, fade...

Looking back at 2019, and a happy new year to you all!

Looking back at 2019, I was delighted and honoured to appear on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series, to discuss (and read from) my “Selected Poems”. You can find a link to my interview here, https://worldpoetry.ca/?p=14784. and my “Selected Poems” is available here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for the UK), and here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for amazon.com customers).

I was surprised and honoured when, in October, I received a Certificate of...

The Mist

Its a misty day.
Shake my fist,
Though I may,
I can not chase
The mist
Away.

I have kissed,
And forgot the mist
In love and wine,
For a time.
But, on this foggy day,
I know
That, shake my fist
Though I may,
That I shall go
Into the mist,
One misty day.

Magpies Chatter In A Winter Sky

Magpies chatter in a winter sky,
And as I
Traverse this woodland track
I look back
And think on the half-lie
We call progress.

The thoughtful squire,
Sitting by his study fire,
Or on hearing the magpies
chatter,
May have had the same thought as I;
That dreams of utopia,
Shatter,
And turn to distopia
Of the Marxist, or laissez-faire kind.

I would rather the country squire
And the open log fire
Than a society
Where variety
Is spurned, in favour of uniformity.
Or a world where value is defined...

When A Poem Is Done

I sit in this winter sun
And think how, when a poem is done,
And out there, for the world to see,
That it can not be
Undone by me.
But, perhaps, my readers will never see.

A Young Lady Named White

A young lady named White
Advertises on a certain website,
Offering cream cakes and tea
With a girl called Leigh,
And I’m going round tonight!

There Once Was A Poet Named Mitch

There once was a poet named Mitch
Who said, “I’m incredibly rich!”.
His friend Guy
Liked to lie,
But he was nowhere as bad as Mitch!

A Budding Poet, Named Lee

A budding poet named Lee
Composes lots of dark poetry.
He swears that its there
But, without the light’s glare,
Its far to dark to see!