K. Morris's Blog, page 293

In Mid April

In mid April
The birds sing
And start
A rill
Of hope in my heart.
Surely this Covid thing
Will pass?
But, for now lad
And lass
Are glad
That birds still sing
In spring.

Meets

Back seat
Car meets.
Or a certain hotel,
That she knows well.

Birds sing
In spring.
At 19,
What does she dream?

When A Young Lady Named Michelle

When a young lady named Michelle
Said, you should sell, sell sell!.
And I said, are you a stockbroker?,
And she said, no, Im a joker.
I said, I prefer miss Nell!.

Share Your Poems

I recently blogged regarding an opportunity for poets to have their poems aired, https://kmorrispoet.com/2020/04/08/an-opportunity-for-poets-to-have-their-work-aired/.

The organiser, David Vickery, has created a Facebook page to promote the sharing of poems concerning COVID-19, which can be found here, https://m.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100049345031282.

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You can find Davids Youtube where he reads poems on Corona/Covid-19 which have been submitted to him here, ...

A Humorous Reimagining of Church of England Services in the Light of the Corana Virus/Covid-19

A humorous reimagining of Church of England services in the light of the Corana Virus/COVID-19, https://www.salisburyreview.com/blog/certain-amendments-to-the-liturgy-and-hymnody-of-the-church-of-england-for-the-duration-of-the-present-emergency/.

The Kiss

A young lady whose name is Kate
Said, the evening it grows very late.
So I gave her a kiss,
And she cried out in bliss.
Then her father he opened the gate!

Time

On a beautiful spring night
I heard, with some delight
The gentle tick tock
Of a long deceased clock.

Time is always there.
Yet I care
For the tick tock
Of an individual clock.

Each, separate timepiece
Must,
One day
Cease.

And I shall go away,
And all the philosophy discussed,
Shall turn to dust.

Whilst Walking In The Forest Green

Whilst walking in the forest green
I met with the fairy queen,
Who said,la belle dame sans merci.
I said, do, please excuse me,
But is this a Keatsian dream?.

Afterwards

She leaned forward slightly, across the wide table, her breasts pressing against the thin silk dress.

It was, in fact not real silk. However it was a first-rate copy and only the man with a trained eye would have spotted the fake, and Tim knew as much about genuine fabrics as the average man or woman knows about anglo saxon poetry.

You know Tim that Id like to come back. How do you English say, to your place?

Yeah, he said, trying hard to look away from those barely concealed globes of...

Heat

Walking through the wood
In this weather hot
I think on should,
And should not.

I shall be good.
But, I have heard tell
That nymphs herein
Dwell.

Some say, that they
Are shy.
I shall stare at the sky
For, therein,
Sin
Is not.

Above, the hot
Sky,
Whilst below
Nymphs go
By.