K. Morris's Blog, page 558

Submitting Your Short Fiction and Poetry: 5 FAQs from a Magazine Editor…

Chris The Story Reading Ape's Blog

by Elise Holland  in Writer’s Digest Online:

For writers of short form literature, submitting your work can mean a variety of positive things.

This step is a powerful signal to yourself that you take your craft seriously enough to put your work out into the world.

And having your work published in a genre or literary magazine can serve to build your resume and grow your writing community.

But so many writers, emerging or established, have lingering ques...

(From my archives) – “Kipling May Regret”

This poem first appeared here on 9 April 2017:

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.

Autumn Sun

There is sadness in the Autumn sun
For our fun
Is almost done.
The prize could have been won
But we let it slip away
As there is always another day.

So we sit here,
In the fall
And recall
What could
And should
Have been done

What happens when a poet lets his pen run aimlessly away?

What happens when a poet lets his pen
Run aimlessly away,
In the mid afternoon?
Soon
Maybe
He will write of a tree
Or some such thing.
Perchance he will talk of cabbages and kings.
But no, that would be to steal Mr Carroll’s words,
A thing not heard
Of amongst honest men,
Who dip their pen
In blood red ink
And think
Of original ideas.
Perchance they speak of wasted years
And tears that fall
And how all love turns to gall.
But there is, I fear
Nothing original here,
So I shall compose a verse...

“We are all equal” he said

“We are all equal” he said.
We nodded our collective head
For who can disagree
That all are equal? But what about free?

“Society is unfair” he said.
Once more, a nod of the collective head.
But who will give up his bed
For the tramp who carries his load
Along yonder road?

“Much of the map was once red
And the English have blood on their hands” he said.
So we dwelt on empire’s shame
And absolved today’s corrupt dictators of all blame,
For Mugabe is a saint
And it is quaint
To believe that the...

There was a young man named Zeff

There was a young man named Zeff
Who possessed no desire to meet Death.
Death visited one day,
But Zeff stole away,
Leaving Death seeking for Zeff …

Of Death and Sex

Gravestones I can not see
Look back at me.
Tomb rhymes with womb,
Or is it the other way around?
Both death and sex are profound
Yet today
We go out of our way
To Avoid speaking of the final sleep.

Stories of sex do our need
For entertainment feed.
We are “shocked”
By a footballer’s disgrace,
Although the smile on our face
Mocks the “shocked”.

The papers care
About morality and titillate
Their readers over their breakfast plate
With stories of how a paedophile was caught
And brought to cour...

There was a young lady named Leigh

There was a young lady named Leigh
Who invited me round for tea.
We ate lots of cake,
But when I tried to partake
She kicked me out at three!

Meanderings of a Reactionary

What can I say?
The household has lost it’s way.
The old squire sits, paralysed,
His eyes fixed on the vanishing prize
Of what could be
Where he
To begin to believe
And cease to grieve.
For what has been
May once more be seen.

Order has broken down
In the servant’s hall.
Everyone wants the butler’s crown
And King Anarchy holds thrall
Over all.

Once the household as clockwork ran.
Each man
Knew his place.
One might trace
In a face
A sense that things where unfair,
But the squire would swear
...

Ethereal

In honour of the changing seasons, here is my poem, “Ethereal”:

“Sunlight slants through branches.
The ethereal girl dances
As the poet romances
Her
Out of the summer air.

The trill
Of an evening blackbird
Is heard.
Then without a word
She is gone,
Though in his heart she lives on.

Perchance
She will dance
Once more
When Autumn winds roar,
And clothed in russet gown
We will lie down
And forever, sleep”.

(“Ethereal” can be found in “Refractions”, which is available from Amazon, as an ebook...