K. Morris's Blog, page 638

There Was A Young Man Called Bert

There was a young man called Bert
Who was never very alert.
When they found him dead
The undertaker said,
“Now he is truly inert”!

How Nice It Is To Drink Coffee

How nice
To drink a coffee as I think
About what to write, but try as I might
There is no delight
For I find that coffee spilt
Wilt
My device break
And I have had to take
The darned thing almost thrice
To the store.
No more
Shall I drink
As I think
While sitting next to my machine
For I glean
That computers and drinks do not mix
And laptops can not always be fixed …!

The Seasons

Leaves swish, like water
As I walk through
Them to reach the park. ‘Tis true
Autumn is still here,
Yet, I fear that winter will give no quarter,
For each season does murder it’s daughter,
Who dies not but rather sleeps
And creeps
Forth to softly kill
Her father who will
Rise once more.

As it was before
So it will remain. The perpetual cycle
Of the seasons, a vital order does bring.
Spring
Follows winter stern.
Buds return
And soon,
Come summer, flowers will bloom.
Autumn imperceptibly doth r...

You Are Unknown To Me

You are unknown to me.
True we made free
But who
Can see
Into the human heart?
Not I.
Fireworks die
And I
Am left alone with my art.

I have known many of your kind
And find
It strange how birds of diverse feather
Flock together.
Yet it is not so peculiar after all.
For in many a girl’s pretty face
We trace
Man’s fall
From grace
And Milton following,not far behind.

Poetry for Guy Fawkes Night

Image license obtained Copyright: mab0440 / 123RF Stock Photo

In honour of Bonfire or Guy Fawkes night, (November 5th), I am linking to some of my poems touching on that occasion:

Catherine Wheel Autumn Rain The Dark

There Was A Young Man Called Guy

There was a young man called Guy
Who, like Icarus, wanted to fly.
He jumped off Big Ben
At a quarter to ten.
I really don’t understand why!

in the end

Annette Rochelle Aben

Took just a moment

To look beyond the moment

That didn’t matter

2016 Annette Rochelle Aben

View original post

Poppy

To those who died that you and me
Might live free.
To those who gave their sweet breath for King and Countrie.
I regret that yesterday
I had no cash to pay
For a poppy deep red
To remember the dead.

I will not know the stench
Of trench
Nor the wrench
Of fear
And pain as spear
Drains the life away.

What can the poet say
Who has never known
The touch of steel against bone?
We die alone
But most will peaceful go
And will not know
The woe
Of comrades lost,
Nor count the cost
Of bloody strife.
T...

To My Dog, His Nose Pressed Up Against My window

“Tell me, what do you see?
As you gaze at yonder tree
Where squirrels jump from branch to branch
And leaves in the late Autumn air dance?

On seeing the fox, who strolls through the garden as though he owns the place
Do you trace in his wild face,
your fellow canine? And does his sharp bark
That oft times pearces the dark
Find an answering echo within your loyal dog heart?

Watching the world pass
Through my window glass,
Tell me
What do you see
As you gaze beyond yonder tree?”

A Short Analysis of T. S. Eliot’s ‘Death by Water’

The continuing analysis by Interesting Literature of Eliot’s “The Wasteland”.

Interesting Literature

A reading of the fourth part of The Waste Land

‘Death by Water’ is by far the shortest of the five sections of T. S. Eliot’s 1922 poem The Waste Land. The section which precedes it, ‘The Fire Sermon’, is 234 lines – over half of the entire length of the poem. Why is ‘Death by Water’ so short? We’re going to attempt a brief summary of this section of the poem here, along with some words of ana...