An interesting question. Where does poetry become poetic prose, and at what point is it simple prose rather than poetry or poetic prose? I dont have a hard and fast answer to this question. Much of my own poetry rhymes. However I dont believe poetry has to rhyme to be construed as such. Kevin
Many thanks to Pax Et Dolor Magazine for publishing my poem “Fire”. Kevin
By:- Kevin Morris
I have felt the fire’s power
It kindles brightly and sinks within the hour.
I have watched the embers dying fast
Looked into the future and gazed into the past
I have raked the ashes cold
Felt the bleakness in my soul
Previously published innewauthoronline
Note: The copyrights on the article belong to the author. The responsibility for the opinions expressed in the article belongs exclusively to the author.
Many thanks to Roberta for publishing my poem, “Night Duty” as a guest post on her website. Kevin
There was a young poet called Morris
Who laid claim to The Odes of Horace.
When they put him on trial
He said “there can be no denial
That my real name, it is Horace!”
When young
Caution he flung
Away,
For he knew from the start,
In the secret recesses of his heart
They would not stay,
(The girls out for fun,
After whom he did run).
There is no disgrace
In the chase
He thought
But why court
When a sort
Of love is so easily bought?
They came and went.
His heart was rent
As money he spent
On an attachment
To a kind of detachment
Which led …
Now in old age
He does uselessly rage
At the phantoms who dance
In a parrady of romance
Upon the stage
Of his own creation.
His anticipation Has turned to dust
Aleviated only by occasional flowerings of lust.
Number 10 particularly resonated with me, “True writers don’t think about the destination of their work. They are too busy falling in love with their writing during the journey”.
A short sighted police officer called Mia
Arrested a young lady named Tia.
On taking another look,
She said “I mistook
You for my nemesis Maria!”
There was a young man called Adolf
Who was very fond of his golf.
On his wedding day
He stayed away
And played with his golfing partner Rolfe!
I dreamed that I was dead.
There was no dread,
Merely a desire
To cross the barbed wire
And escape something or somewhere,
Perhaps despair.
Pressing my hand against the barbed wire, I felt no pain.
No guards came.
I did not cross, for I new I should find
That which I had left behind
– A man locked in his own mind.
A minor poet, of little note,
Once a poem wrote.
I am sad to say,
That self-same day
His verse was eaten by a goat.
the man of letters said, in a most melancholy tone
“would that you had left my verse alone
O most vile goat
And fed
Instead
Upon my coat”.
K Morris - Poet 