K. Morris's Blog, page 368

Meet Father Merton, a character in Through the Nethergate

Father Merton is a Catholic priest who grew up on a diet of Norse mythology and Scandinavian folklore emanating from his mother’s side of the family who lived in Norway. His background and continuous exposure to superstition and mythical beliefs have resulted in him having a much more open mind about such matters than his colleagues who have grown up in a much more science focused world. Father Merton considers situations from all perspectives and applies all his senses, including a highly de...

In The Fog Of Liquor

In the fog of liquor
Desire grows
And the heart beats quicker.
‘Tis bliss
To kiss
But the wise one knows
That those
Soft lips
At which he sips
Are as fleeting as the rose
Which in summer grows.

So we let go
In lust
While the dust
Under the bed
Is dead
Skin, and the summer rose
Grows brown
And each petal
Does settle
On the ground
And becomes as one
With flowers long since gone.

My poem ‘The Poet on The Hill’ is on ‘Place of Poetry’.

I have uploaded my poem ‘The Poet On The Hill’ to ‘Places of Poetry.

To view my poem please click here.

To read other people’s poems, or to upload your own please click here.

 

 

My Dear Friend, Whose Name Is Miss Kind

My dear friend, whose name is Miss Kind
Said, “those silk ropes, they tightly do bind,
But its totally consensual
And really quite commonsensical,
As you help me, my friend, to unwind . . .

A Young Man Named Gus

A young man named Gus
Created a most terrible fuss
When his girlfriend Pearl
Gave me a twirl,
On the number 7 bus!

Lesbos

In his bedroom

Perfume hangs

In the air.

She dreams not of he,

But of sea

And the cost

Of a trip from Lesbos

Not My Type

I swear
That she
Was not my type,
Yet that night
Something other than empathy
Did stir
In me.
Maybe ’twas merely
Her body’s scent . . .

I thought her vulgar,
A judgement perhaps unfair,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.

An animal attraction maybe
To her,
But something other than empathy
Did stir
In me
That night,
Although I swear
That she
Was not my type.

Monday Afternoon Humour

My friend whose name is Moria
Has married the local squire.
He sleeps all day
And the people say,
That the squire’s a vampire!

—

A young lady whose name is Moria
Said, “of your poetry I shall never tire.
But oh my sweet honey,
As you have no money,
I shall have to marry the local squire!”.

The Aesthetica Creative Writing Award

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“The Aesthetica Creative Writing Award is an international literary prize that is a hotbed for new talent in Poetry and Short Fiction.

The Prize, now in its 13th year, is organised by the art and culture publication, Aesthetica Magazine.

Every year, we support both emerging and established writers and through the Prize, we offer publication in an anthology that is an inspiring collection of narrative and poetic forms”.

To read more, or to enter please visit https://www.aestheticamagazine.com...

The Man With The Mop

The man with the mop
Waits in the wings
But we do not
Speak of such things.
Tiredness brings us to a stop,
And the man with the mop
Waits, unseen
In the wings
Ready to clean.
But we must
Not speak of dust
Or other such things,
But the man with the mop,
He waits in the wings.