K. Morris's Blog, page 51

On the Death of a Writer

The rain is falling again.

The garden smells fresh

And a solitary blackbird sings.

 

I heard of your death.

Your book remains unread.

You had others to write

And now are dead.

 

Each man has his plans

Literary or otherwise.

But none knows

When his eyes may close.

 

The clock ticks as I write.

The scent of wet earth

Enters the house.

Tonight I will close my eyes,

And tomorrow write …

 

Everyone Needs a Good Workman

There was a young man named Nool

Who was famous for his versatile tool.

A spinster called Shilling

Employed him for drilling

As she’d heard of Nool’s versatile tool!

The Sculptor

There once was a very fine sculptor

Who was famous for owning a vulture.

The vulture called Mat

Wore a top hat.

He really was a very fine sculpture!

 

My Affair with Flair

I’m in the midst of an affair

With a young lady known as Flair.

Her friend Lou

Joins in to,

And my wife she likes to glare!

Roses

“Roses are fading”, you said.

I lent and smelt

But there was little scent.

 

In childhood I would

Collect from nature’s plentiful store

Acorns and conkers

But no Oaktree grew.

 

Now we two  see fading flowers.

I think of lost hours

But speak not of them to you.

 

The 20 Greatest Poets of All Time

https://www.forbes.com/sites/entertainment/article/best-poets/

An interesting list. However, whilst I think such articles can spark interest in poetry and perhaps encourage those who have not yet come to love the art form to do so, any such list is just the opinion of the author. I, personally am surprised that Keats does not get a mention. His fine poems on autumn and his ode to a nightingale surely make him worthy of inclusion in such a list.

Whilst Attending My Old Boarding School

Whilst attending my old boarding school

I knew a most ghastly ghoul.

As the clock struck midnight

He’d play with the light,

Which was strictly against the rule!

Rationality

I am a rational man.

Ghosts and ghouls are for fools.

But, at boarding school

Was it pipes at night

Which slowly cooled

And housemasters whose shoes squeaked

And made floors creak?

Or ghastly ghouls?

 

Sometimes at night I delight

In tales of vampires.

But, when I retire

I feel the creeping chill

Of imagined hands.

And no man can command

What may come in dreams.

 

 

Poets Reading Their Own Poetry

The below podcast contains recordings of a number of poets reading their work. Among those included are Robert Frost reading his beautiful and much anthologised poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, and Dorothy Parker reciting a number of her poems. Also included are 2 of my own poems from my collection “The Churchyard Yew and Other Poems”:  “Birds on a March Evening” and “Sitting on this Fallen log”. Both poems are read by the show’s host Victor Schwartzman.

 

To listen to the podcast pl...

A Poem from My Archives

A poem from my archives entitled “On a Quiet Sunday”:

 

On a quiet Sunday

In Spring

I heard the clock’s

Tick tock.

It said, “this day

Of spring

Is full of sunshine.

Girls without socks

Play. But sunshine

Does not stay.

And all rhyme

Has it’s time”.