Reaching for the alarm that wakes
He takes
A step into the unknown.
Breakfast will, he thinks, Be followed by leaving home
For work.
No sudden jerk
Of fear,
Just the passing thought, death is always near
And one day all will
Be still
Hope none of my author/poet friends have their work pirated. However, if it does happen to you this is an informative post. Kevin
Pirate Books – No not a children’s story sadly, like with music they are books stolen from the author. We tend to know why – The reader is to poor (cough, choke cough) and can’t afford a cup of coffee let alone our books. They should be free, after all the author only writes them so we can read them.
Like another blog I read this morning, said, they seem to forget all those businesses we contract out to, those who make our book covers, book trailers, editing, formatting and all the other things need doing to give the book (you only wrote) a fair chance.
I heard about a program called Blastythe other week. Apparently it find your priate books and you can blast them – whatever that means. After much thought, I decided to try it, expecally after seeing more pirate sites and having recommendations from…
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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 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?
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.
I enjoyed the poems below Kate’s introduction and, of course the introduction itself. Kevin
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 cosy night by the fire or even a screaming row.
My short stories tend to be observational (names changed to protect the innocent of course :0) ).
This is my first entry into the ‘WordPress’ world, so hope you’ll be patient with me.
I will post poems and stories or just general ‘musings’ as and when they’re ready.
I hope you will have a read through and if you would like to post a message or a comment to say what you thought, or ‘like’, That would be fabulous.
As a start, I…
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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?
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 durch die Blätter dieser Eiche fließt.
Es gibt keine Zeit, nur Ewigkeit.
Ich bin frei, ich bin stark. Ich bin Ich!
The oak
I am the oak.
I am the squirrel, I am the bird, that live in that oak.
I am the woman who got raped under that oak.
I am the man who got hung from that oak.
I am the wind that flows through the leaves of that oak.
There is no time, only eternity.
I am free, I am strong. I am Me!
(For the original post please visit, https://dawnsnight.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/poetry-2/).
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.
K Morris - Poet 