K. Morris's Blog, page 64

There Once Was a Nymph Named Echo

There once was a nymph named Echo

Who spent all her days drinking Prosecco.

When they said, “is that nice?”,

She would repeat their words twice,

And then she would drink more Prosecco!

Poet Kevin Morris Interviewed on the World Poetry Reading Series

On Monday 12 February, I was interviewed by Ariadne Sawyer of the World Poetry Reading Series. During my interview, I read and discussed my poetry.

 

You can find a link to the podcast here, https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-for-feb-15-2024-kevin-morris-and-tanis-parenteau/

. My segment appears approximately 31 minutes into the podcast and runs for about 11 minutes. In addition, I read a final poem at the end of the show.

 

My thanks to Ariadne Sawyer of the World Poet...

There Once Was a Vampire Named Dawn

There once was a vampire named Dawn

Who liked to dance on the lawn.

When they said, “is that good?”,

She would say, “I like blood.

Won’t you join me on this lawn?”.

Hope

There was heavy rain

In the churchyard

As I hurried by

Cold old stones.

Later the sun came,

And early flowers

Groped for the spring.

Cultured Miss Marr

A cultured young lady known as Marr

Has a job in a rough bar.

When she quotes Shakespeare

The customers all cheer

And dance with Marr on the bar!

Waitresses

I have taken delight

In Waitresses at night

And in the morning find

The same cold rain

And thoughts of the waitress

I so lovingly undressed

In my so fertile mind.

 

 

 

Here Comes a Chopper to Chop Off my Head!

When a wicked young man named Ted

Said, “I shall chop off your head!”,

And his friend Max

Passed him an axe,

I found I was dreaming in bed!

Grass

Some men take their pleasure

Amidst the sweet heather

With a pretty young lass.

But all grass

Turns to hay

And the poor poet’s lay

Must end in dust.

Sleep

Sometimes I find my mind

Dwelling on love and sleep.

My lover’s kiss

Is passing bliss.

But the Reaper keeps

His special kiss

For my inevitable sleep.

 

Mortality

I heard a solitary bird

Sing over tombs

On a sunny February day.

 

 

I know gloom

And beauty

While he

Knows not mortality.