K. Morris's Blog, page 596
April 11, 2017
Your assistance in choosing a book cover for “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems” would be much appreciated
As many of you are aware, I am in the process of publishing a further collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”.
The collection derives it’s title from the first poem, which is entitled (appropriately enough) “My Old Clock I Wind”.
I am in the midst of choosing a photograph for the book cover and would greatly appreciate your views on the photographs featured here, which show the clock from which the book derives it’s title.
Comments concerning the quality of the images, whi...
April 10, 2017
There Was A Young Man Called Holmes
There was a young man called Holmes
Who investigated some missing gnomes.
But if one takes a look
In Watson’s enthralling book,
There is no case of “The Missing Gnomes!”
April 9, 2017
Dowson
Sinking into bliss.
A kiss.
A silver penny
So many
Shine
On women and wine.
As Dowson searches, for love divine.
Pale lost lilies.
Sillies
Weak
No words they speak
Will make him cease
In his search for peace.
Dowson died young.
No joy his lovings brung.
The same old song sung
Once more.
The hoare
Frost froze the poet, to the core.
—
Ernest Christopher Dowson was one of the Decadent or Catholic poets. Born in 1867 and dying in 1900 the poet spent a life full of wine, women...
Kipling May Regret
In the restaurant its just the waiter and I,
While outside the window Vehicles speed by.
“There are a lot of beautiful women outside today”,
He remarks by way
Of conversation.
I drink
My wine and think
About this nation
On who’s empire the sun would never set.
Kipling may regret,
Yet
The sun continues to shine
And there is curry and wine,
While in the street
Multiracial feet
Hurry
Along,
Beating out a more or less harmonious song.
There was a middle-aged man called More
There was a middle-aged man called More
Who was a saloon bar bore.
He asked the barmaid,
“How long have I stayed?”
She gave a very loud snore!
Should I Explain?
Should I explain
Or leave those who gather the grain
To glean
What I mean?
I am no expert
But hope my words divert
And cause readers to think
As they from poetry’s fountain drink.
Commonplace
The dress she bought
Was cheap and short.
The bus she caught.
The vehicle’s slow pace
Her burning face.
Barely coping.
For salvation hoping.
Groping
For a way out.
Inwardly she shouts.
People are about
Staring
She is almost beyond caring.
A suburban place
His flushed face.
A girl’s disgrace.
How very common place.
April 8, 2017
A Virtual Reality Devotional
The body lies prostrate
On the confessional floor
A weakened avatar
Your closed door
Heartbeat slowed
From afar
Fading finally
Into empty code
Mere tokens
Conquests
Meaningless and broken
Nothing of value
Can be taken
Only the memories of love
Gained and lost
And gained again
Virtual virtue
Virtually gone
And truth now clear
Life
Turned into fear
Death
A final frontier
Hold your breath
It is not so painless
As they wanted us
To believe
There Was A Ghost Called Frank
There was a ghost called Frank,
Who liked his chains to clank
In a manner most foul,
(Which caused the dogs to howl)!
And his stare was cold and blank.
—
A disreputable old ghost called Frank
Liked his chains to clank.
He stole a young lady’s towel,
In a manner most foul
As she lazed on the river bank.
Beauty
Sometimes the air is so pure
And beauty’s store
Becomes too much.
At such
Moments the heart is full
And a dull
Ache
Will not me forsake.
Tears fall on the tranquil lake.
The sun awakes.
I will go
And see the rainbow
Shine
And ponder on what some call nature
And others the divine.
