There was a young man named Max
Who evaded much of his tax.
When the taxman came
He hid in shame,
And his accountant played on the sax!
—
There was a young man named Max
Who evaded much of his tax.
When the taxman came
He hid in shame,
And his wife ran away with the tax!
In my youth
To tell truth
Every girl appeared to me
To be
A spark to ignite.
My flame burned bright
And I would take delight
In puppy dreams.
Now it seems
That I have too much
As I at nought but phantoms clutch.
I have delighted
In desire
Unrequited
And received a kind of satisfaction
Through what the vulgar term “action”.
Their fire
Is often cold, although
A few I know
Make a show
Of pretending it is not so.
Yesterday evening, I took down Robert Frost’s “A Boy’s Will” from my bookshelves and spent a delightful hour or so leafing through it. “A Boy’s Will” contains many wonderful poems, one of my favourites being “A Late Walk” which can be found here, http://www.bartleby.com/117/5.html. If you are unfamiliar with the work of Frost, I highly recommend reading “A Boy’s Will”.
A free ebook is available courtesy of the poet from Smashwords, which is a generous gesture on Jennifer’s part.
Poetry is fluid and interchanging based on emotion and perception. It allows both the poet and the reader to discover and interpret the words, for themselves.
Life is a lot like poetry, always changing, unique, flexible, forever challenging the mind, and flooding the senses.
Horns & Halo’s was written to convey this sense of self through both emotion and experience. Horns & Halo’s connects the written word, with the real world. No bullshit, no sugar-coating, just up front and raw…
BOLD AND STRONG…LIKE A WOMAN
Horns & Halos is available worldwide in paperback and Kindle, from Amazon and a free e-book is available from https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/746721 use coupon code to get your free copy PT96V
Walking through the churchyard
I heard
you talking.
Your word
Was gentle then,
A breeze
Whispering amongst the leaves,
But when
You In anger blow
The wise know
That your breath
Augurs death,
For we reap what we sow.
There was an elderly man named Locke
Who owned a grandfather clock.
Dead on nine
He would dine
To the chimes of that grandfather clock
Give me a wealthy patron to support my rhyme
That I may please
And gently tease.
But a thought most sad
Drives me mad
For I was born in the modern time!
Shal I compose jingles
To sell pringles?
Or advertise singles
Clubs
Where couples in bath tubs …
No, late at night
I shall continue to write
In rhyme
Until come my time …
There was a young man named Moor
Who’s poetry was most obscure.
Much to his surprise
Readers did criticise
So he composed a whole lot more!
It goes without saying that I am delighted whenever readers express appreciation for my work. Its wonderful to know that my poetry brings pleasure to others.
On occasions readers appreciation of my poetry has caused them to contact me requesting that I critique their work. I am greatly flattered when this occurs. However I invariably respond with a courteous decline.
As with all poets, I have my own unique style. This usually entails the extensive use of rhyme. I find an intrinsic beauty in traditional rhyming poetry which, no doubt is a major factor in explaining my use of the form. That is not to say that I never engage in free verse poetry. I do, however this is rare and when I do utilise this form it is, almost invariably in the context of a poem in which rhyme predominates. Where I to critique many free verse poems I would, in all honesty have to say that I did not consider them to constitute poetry. That is not to say that free verse can not be moving and extremely beautiful. Indeed it can and it is worthy of praise as regards the possession of these qualities. It is, however (in my opinion) moving and beautiful prose (rather than poetry) and any comments by me would, in all honesty have to reflect my view of the matter.
More generally, my perspective of the merits and/or demerits of a given poem is just that (my own view), others may disagree. I do not wish to be the person responsible for dampening the enthusiasm of a budding poet. I do, from time to time come across poetry which is (in my opinion) truly awful. When confronted by work of this nature I click away without commenting because (as I say above) I have no desire to puncture anyone’s balloon.
My own style of writing (rhyming poetry) is, I am well aware considered as old-fashioned and overly restrictive by many modern poets and critics. One mans meat is another mans poison. Let each poet plough his/her own furrow, I will not trespass on their territory (other than to comment and/or like if I truly feel that their work possesses merit). Otherwise I shall refrain from passing judgement.
K Morris - Poet 