K. Morris's Blog, page 674

I will be reading at the Poetry Cafe this evening (Tuesday 7 June)

I had intended to read at the Y-Tuesday poetry event this evening (Tuesday 7 June), however, due to the event having been cancelled, I will be reading at the Poetry Café, 22 Betterton Street, Covent Garden, London. The Poetry Unplugged event runs from 7:30 until 10:30, with poets signing up to read between 6-7 pm. If you do come along please do say hello.

Kevin

Poetry Isnt Real

“Poetry isn’t real” you said.
I shook my head
For what the poet feels
Is real.
The words in the poet’s brain,
His whole train
Of thought
Is caught
And given life upon the page.
His poems may forever dance
And bring romance
To the paper stage.

A poem can make one laugh or cry.
So why
Can you not try
To lift your eyes from the ground,
And gaze upon something profound?

Unrequited

Looking back, I remember the owl did hoot.
What is the route
To a girl’s heart?
Where to start?
The park
Was dark.
You and I talked as we walked
Back to the hall.
I recall
You remarked on the romance of the owl’s cry
But try
As I might
The night
Ended in tea
And me
Alone
At home.

First WordPress blog!! Fluffy Slippered Feet/here I sit/It’s Night time

I enjoyed the poems below Kate’s introduction and, of course the introduction itself. Kevin

Kate McClelland

Hello There

I’m Kate. Pleased to meet you. Thanks for taking the time to read this blog.

I write poetry, (no yawning out there!) some short stories and I am trying to write a children’s book (although it’s glacially slow at the moment)

I write poems about whatever pops into my head. So they can be about a flower, a missed bus, a cosynight by the fireor even ascreaming row.

My short stor...

Puppets

The puppets on a string
Swing
This way and that
In accordance with the command of the fat
Puppateer.

Far and near
They dance.
Circumstance
Dictates he has control
Of the whole
Play.

The ringmaster may pay
To have his way
Tomorrow and today,
But, heres the thing
should the string
Break, will the puppets stay?

“The Oak” by Dawn D

Thank you to Dawn D for kind permission to reproduce her poem, “The Oak”. The below is copyright and may not be reproduced without the explicit permission of Dawn D. Dawn’s blog is currently private. You can, however contact Dawn to request access.

The Oak

Die Eiche

Ich bin die Eiche.
Ich bin das Eichhörnchen, ich bin der Vogel, die in dieser Eiche leben.
Ich bin die Frau, die unter dieser Eiche vergewaltigt wurde.
Ich bin der Mann, der ab dieser Eiche gehängt wurde.
Ich bin der Wind, der d...

Serpent

A serpent with a smooth tongue
Did feel
The heel
Of a girl’s shoe
As through
The grass
It slithered.
The girl quivered
But knew not she had been stung
By one who lives among
Rakes in suits
Who’s boots
Will trample a maiden’s heart.
She had not the art
To comprehend
The depths to which man will descend
Nor how he does attain his fell ends.

‘Albatross’ – Extract 7

besonian

Here is the seventhextract from my book ‘Albatross – the scent of honeysuckle’, recently published on Amazon. The link to Extract 1, for those who want to catch up is –https://besonian.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/albatross-extract-1/

17.

Martin and I arranged to meet by the river the following Monday. Sunday was his usual day for fishing but, as he pointed out, get good weather on a Sunday and the river and its banks would be awash with boats, people, children, ice cream vans, frisbee...

Heaven preserve us from self-appointed “experts”

Yesterday evening I went out for a drink with an old friend. As always in these situations I had with me my guide dog Trigger. On my friend going to the bar to get some much needed liquid refreshment, a gentleman on the table adjacent to mine said words to the effect of,
“Can I feed your dog?”
“No thank you, he gets two meals a day and feeding him encourages begging”, I replied.
“But he’s hungry”, came the response.
“He’s always hungry, that is the nature of dogs”, I said starting to feel exa...

For The Birds

Carpet by heels worn.
Man’s heart torn
Asunder
By blades that plunder
His nightly slumber.

To and fro
The dancers go.
Ever changing,
Exchanging
Well worn words.
Love my friend, is for the birds …