K. Morris's Blog, page 522

There is a sad fascination

There is a sad fascination
In watching a man digging his own tomb.
He protests that he is not
But the graveyard plot
Will consume his name.

He will apportion blame
(To others, for he is pure as the driven snow)
And will go
On digging his own grave.
(Though he could himself save
Had he the courage to gaze
In the glass and view
The situation as others do).

At Night

At night
There is no black and white.
Just the delight
Of you and me,
Converging
Merging,
Completely free
Of race
And place.

(https://lovelycurses.com/february-black-poetry-writing-month/).

Black Poetry Writing Month: Traveling through Time… Slavery

I didn’t realise that it is Black Poetry Month until I came across this post.

Lovely Curses

February is finally here! Did anyone else think January was way too long?

…And too cold; it was definitely too cold!

If February is your month to reset your New Year’s goals (particularly your writing goals), here’s a suggestion for you…

Why not join a new writing challenge?

That’s right. Black Poetry Writing Month (BlaPoWriMo) has returned for a third year, and this time I hope to see lots more partic...

There was a young lady named Leigh

There was a young lady named Leigh
Who drank a good deal of tea.
She drank it every day
But I regret to say
That she never gave any to me!

How much would you pay for a book?

How much would you pay for a book? Or, to put it another way, how much is a book worth to you?

A couple of weeks back, I was chatting to an acquaintance about books. During our conversation my acquaintance stated that many ebooks are overpriced (he mentioned that some cost £7 or more), and given the low cost of producing electronic versions they should be more reasonably priced. He also went on to state that he bought many of his books in charity shops, with many retailing for as little as £...

Of Hills And Poets

Upper Norwood is extremely hilly, hence the title of this poem, “The Poet On The Hill”:

Deathbed

Did a shadow pass
Before the glass?
Why stare?
For there is no one there.

His head
Upon the deathbed
Breathes her scent.
Should he repent
And if so, of what?

The bed is hot
Where the cold girl lay.
He finds a number
(Not her’s,
The one who is descending the stairs)
But the girl he texted yesterday.

Should he slumber
Or encumber
The bedpost with another notch,
A further blotch
On the once virgin sheet?

There was a rich young man named More

There was a rich young man named More
Who was extremely fond of the poor.
When they asked him for money
He said “the weather is sunny
And I do adore the poor!”.

A Lover’s Hand

A hand
Can command
The ocean’s tide
To sweep aside
All convention
In waves that carry us away.
But it is my contention
(Despite what young lovers say)
That many a ship ends in grief
On a reef
That he and she
Are too blind to see

Judge Not

The maiden’s shapely bust
Engenders her lover’s lust
And the moralist’s disgust.
Lovers and moralists are soon dust
So let it be
For tis no concern of thee
Or me
And the wise agree
That there is no glee
In our final bed.