K. Morris's Blog, page 511

The slowness of spring shadows

AreMyFeetOffTheGround

i have stopped by woods on a snowy evening.
it’s a sublime slanting sun, and,
camera in hand,
i come upon the hoped-for scene.

the reaching trees, silhouettes of bareness.
the furnace of the sun,
a smudge of burnt orange behind the ridge,
imparts the hue, the twilight blue
to the mile long shadows
these striations in the crunchy glitter.

i click and click with frantic abandon,
not wanting to lose this singular zenith of beauty.
how many shots? a hundred? a thousand?
i w...

There Was An Elderly Man Called Monk

There was an elderly man called Monk
Who sat in a pub getting drunk.
When the barmaid looked askance
He asked her to dance.
That disreputable old drunkard called Monk!

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Nails

Women of a certain profession
Draw up at nail bars
In their boyfriend’s fast cars.
While priests hear the confession
Of those impaled
On nails.

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I Knew A Young Lady Called Mable

I knew a young lady called Mable
Who collapsed drunk under a table.
I offered her my hand
To help her to stand.
Though willing she was sadly unable!

There Was A Young Lady Called Claire

There was a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where always bare.
She went for an interview
Without any shoe.
I know as I was there!

—

I knew a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where invariably bare.
She walked on hot coals
While playing at bowls.
I know as I was there!

—

There was a young lady called Claire
Who’s feet where always bare.
She was a dancer by profession
And I must make a confession
For I am that young lady Claire!

Read Poetry: WOOD IN THE RAIN, by Kevin Morris

POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film.

My hair is barely wet 

At all 

And yet 

The rain did fall 

As I stood 

In yonder wood. 

 

The yammer 

Of a hammer 

Reached my ear, 

While the birds free 

Sang to me 

As I touched the flowers 

That know not hours. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Many Who Are Given

Many who are given
What they have striven
For
Find in the experience a poor
Shadow of the ideal they so adore.

If the longed for kiss
Brings no bliss
Then off they lurch
In search
Of their extreme
Dream
And in the supreme
Moment of joy
They do themselves destroy

Read Poetry: Curse Coffee Cups, by Andrew Green

This is clever and witty.

POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film.

Curse the coffee cups and spoons
The yellow fog, the window panes
Curse the dying of the light
Curse the rage against the night.

Curse daffodils, satanic mills
Pleasure domes, the albatross,
Comparisons to summer day
The last man in, an hour to play.

Curse roads divergent in a wood,
The knock upon a moonlit door
The airman’s helmet and the hawk
Painted women and...

A Drunken Young Lady Called Mable

A drunken young lady called Mable
Danced on a rickety old table.
We all gave a roar
And called out “en core”,
But that table was really unstable …

So Bad It’s Good: The Best Bad Poets in English Literature

Interesting Literature

In this week’s Dispatches from The Secret Library, Dr Oliver Tearle enjoys some good bad poetry courtesy of The Joy of Bad Verse

I’ve long been a fan of Nicholas Parsons. No, not that one – although who could fail to appreciate the sharp wit of the Just a Minute host? – but Nicholas T. Parsons, the author of one of the best books of literary trivia out there (The Book of Literary Lists), an enjoyable history of the guidebook (Worth the Detour: A History of the Guideboo...