K. Morris's Blog, page 580

Profession

Her profession
Was discretion.

His obsession
Was her profession.

Hearing their confession
Was the priest’s profession …

Why Do You Seek The Perfect Rose?

Why do you seek the perfect rose?
For heaven knows
That it’s scent
Is all too soon spent.

Results of the competition to win a print copy of “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems” by Kevin Morris

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On 8 June, I launched a competition offering my readers a chance to win a free, signed copy of my forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, https://newauthoronline.com/2017/06/08/your-chance-to-win-a-signed-print-copy-of-poet-kevin-morriss-forthcoming-collection-of-poetry-my-old-clock-i-wind-and-other-poems/.

I am pleased to announce that the winner is Annette Rochelle Aben, https://annetterochelleaben.wordpress.com/

Congratulations to Annette who wins a signed...

Venerable Old Clock

I saw 2 men who did contend
Over who could a clocks hand’s bend.
I feared it would break
As one did a forward motion make,
While the other pushed back.
The mechanism shivered
But did not crack.

Those men are at it still
And will
Not be content
Until that venerable old clock is rent
Asunder,
For like a dog with a bone
They can not leave it alone.
Forgive them, for they know not what they plunder

There Was A Young Lady Called Bess

There was a young lady called Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The vicar’s daughter walked by
And said, with a sigh
“Would that I could that way dress!”

Knowledge

Knowledge I possess (and a degree),
But the wind free
Laughs at me
As he
Shakes yonder bending tree

Pips

Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.

They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.

A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.

Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.

False Memory

“If there be such a thing
As false memory,
Why then does recollection sting
As a demented wasp?

The physical pain
May go, but the buzz
Does remain,
Churning,
Returning
Again and again.

The lunatics have taken over the asylum
But who are the lunatics and who are the sane?
And why in the brain
Does the imaginary sting
Remain?

The plays the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king”.
“But Claudius is long since dead
And Hamlet is mad”,
The doctor said.

Tennis

She plays
And the last rays
Of the setting sun
Catch her hand
That can command
An ocean.
A final motion
Of her wrist
And their game is done.

Muddy

newauthoronline

Thoughts muddy
I will forsake
And take
Refuge in my study,
Among poets who speak
Words that endure beyond a week.

I shall sit listening to birdsong.
The long
Summer days willimperceptibly turn
Into Autumn. I shall the world spurn
And yearn
For Keat’s Nightingale.

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