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Great Feedback On My “Selected Poems”

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I was delighted to receive the following email earlier today:

“Dear Mr Morris,
I am writing to tell you that your poems in “The Collected Poems of K Morris” that you gave me on the train on my way to college are exceptional. You might not remember me but I am the girl doing politics and history that you met on the train and gifted your amazing book to. I have always been interested in writing poems and therefore you have really inspired me to carry on my interest and write some poems of my own. I would really like to thank you for gifting me your book and inspiring me to continue writing”.

The Selected Poems of K. Morris

“The Selected Poems of K Morris” can be found here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for the UK), and here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/. (for amazon.com customers).

(Please note, I have not included the young lady’s name in order to protect her privacy).

Generation Z

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I am dating a young lady from Gen Z

Who says that she is in love with me!

She calls me her honey

And thinks I have money.

So don’t tell her the truth about me …

 

A Memory

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You padded around my flat

Silent as a cat.

 

 

I strain

To remember your name.

Then it comes back.

And I recall

You wanted something else

And I, wanted you,

And fell from grace.

 

A few years  later, you called my name

In the street

Were intimate strangers

By mischance meet.

 

 

You were no old flame.

Yet the memory remains

Of a girl, perhaps  half there.

And your friend in the street

Who knew it was true

But claimed a mistake

Had occurred.

 

 

Yet, I knew you –

A sleek black cat

Who lost her fur

In a gentleman’s flat.

Lethe

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One day

I will cross the Styx

And drink of Lethe.

 

 

All our memories must decay.

But some succumb

To Lethe

Before they make their way

Over the Styx.

 

 

We grieve

For those who are here

Yet gone away.

And pray

That when we leave

We may

Recognise Charron.

 

Yet some who forget

Before they cross

Know not what

They have lost

 

More wine

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When a young lady drinking my wine

Said, “your rhyme it is truly divine!”

I said to her, “miss,

Do give me a kiss!”

She said, “first give me more wine!”

The Poetic Old Goat

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There once was a poetic old goat

Who went and swallowed a coat.

He said, “that was delicious!”

But the effects were pernicious,

As a button stuck in his throat!

Identity

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I heard my entry phone go.

I said, “hello?”

He said, “Its Tesco”.

I replied, “its not me!”

 

After, I thought I ought

To have said, “its not for me”.

For I am, of course “I” or “me”.

But, you see

I was not thinking of my identity

At the time,

For my mind

Was caught up in rhyme!

 

A Gossipy Young Lady Known as Cook

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A gossipy young lady known as Cook

Has published a fast selling book.

An erotic dancer called Lou

Says we must sue!

But all Cook says is true …!

My Poetic Muse

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The desk is cold to my hand.

I can not command

My poetic muse.

So think of girls who lose their shoes,

And poets who

Say more than they ought to

Of women and wine

And men who may seem

To spend their time

In fleeting dreams.

 

But it is no crime

For a poetic muse

To lose

Her ethereal shoes.

Yet what can be said

Should she lay her fickle head

Upon the poet’s empty bed

Where love sleeps.

Or is dead.

Being Blind

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Being blind I find

I can read and write in the dark.

I have some small sight

So  turn on the light at night

To prevent the stubbing of toes

And avoid

The stairs.

For, if I fall

All dreams and nightmares

May end

And eternal dark descend.

 

 

But the night

Will shut out the light

For us all

In the end

Whether we have blind eyes

Or otherwise.

My Muse

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The desk is cold to my hand.

I can not command

My poetic muse.

So think of girls who lose their shoes,

And poets who

Say more than they ought to

Of women and wine

And men who may seem

To spend their time

In fleeting dreams.

 

But it is no crime

For a poetic muse

To lose

Her ethereal shoes.

Yet what can be said

Should she lay her fickle head

Upon the poet’s empty bed

Where love sleeps.

Or is dead.