We pass
Before the glass,
Slake
And forsake.
To take
But not possess.
Her dress
Or jeans.
Scenes
Are in the mirror caught.
Our time is bought
But the glass will not tell
What we know
Oh too well …!
There once was a werewolf called Guy
Who went out when the moon was high.
When the moon disappeared
He became afeared
And would shake and sometimes cry!
These are stories or narrative poetry centered in Ireland written metrically with rhyme. The language flows well. Even when the stories seem dark the author’s heart shines through to light the way. For example, in “Ulster’s Shame”, a dark narrative with “blood stained footpaths and bullet spattered walls” we are not left with “screams” and “terror” but a resolution: “What matters is the depth of God’s sighs.”
She describes the people around her with kind brevity. The ending of “The Brownie Pack” states her love and humbly leaves it to God whether it is returned.
She describes the joyful and sorrowful mysteries of life. In “Tender to Touch” an old man buys a medicine from her. In his confusion he rubs it on his pained stomach rather than drinking it. Nonetheless, he’s…
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There was a young lady named Bess
Who wore a little black dress
While out on the catwalk.
And people did talk
On account of the split in that dress!
There was a young lady named Lou
Who said “no gentleman are you!”.
I replied in distress
“I must confess
That twas I who stole your shoe!”.
On 26 June, I published a post in which I link to a podcast of a discussion between 2 blind poets, Giles L Turnbull and Dave Steele, https://newauthoronline.com/2018/06/26/writing-blind/. As you will see from this post on Giles’s blog he and I both attended University College of Swansea (at the same time) and we both worked as civil servants in London, http://gilesturnbullpoet.com/2018/07/01/i-spy-with-my-little-eye-something-beginning-with-a-poet/.
Life is certainly full of coincidences as is demonstrated by Giles and I bumping into one another online! You can find Giles’s debut pamphlet, “Dressing up” here, https://www.cinnamonpress.com/index.php/products-listing/product/247-dressing-up. Having read the collection I can wholeheartedly recommend this little book.
A couple of weeks back, I fell in to conversation with a gentleman who works for a leading essay writing service. He was both educated and likeable, nonetheless I disapprove strongly of his occupation. Although “reputable” essay writing services carry disclaimers along the lines of “this service offers sample essays”, they know, perfectly well that many of those who avail themselves of such services wil pass off the work of the essay writing company as that of their own. This is, however one attempts to dress it up, at bottom immoral and teaches students to rely on others rather than develop the skills necessary to produce their own work.
Photo: Pixabay
I have been hosting a number of guest posts by essay-writing service providers and some have called me out on it, albeit in your always polite way.
So, why do I do it?
Part of the reason is my own experience. As an awkward teenager, I remember struggling with a particularly tough assignment at school. My father came to the rescue. Although he was only supposed to offer some minor assistance, he ended up writing the whole thing (sorry, Mr. Anestidis). So, I don’t feel I’m in a position to cast any stones.
Strangely enough, when the next assignment came up, I was ready to tackle it—and I did. I have no idea how or why, but simply watching my dad at work seemed to vicariously teach me how to do it myself.
Then, there is the fact that the missus has tutored students in the past. As…
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This is the town with the house with the woman with the fire inside
She arranges her mornings with needles and flowers, becoming quieter
Everyday wishing there is more to life than this great lone pine
They do not talk to her anymore, nor do they visit her with apple pies
The future is a gray seagull, they say, the sun has gone to another
Nameless town with a house with a woman with a fire inside
Over the hills a cruel wind blows, she sits and listens, still as life
The moon usurps the sun in her white gown, killing the last sputters
Everyday wishing there is more to life than this great lone pine
She watches the wind overturn the wheelbarrow and the rusty bike
She rides at night like a golden broom, a naked witch, hunting after
The small town with the house with the woman with…
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You left your shoes under my bed.
I discovered them there
Where they hid.
You said
To keep them for you.
So I could not be rid
Of your high heel shoe.
I remember you
Taking off your shoe
And the game we two
Did play
Many a day
Ago.
No,
You never did reclaim those shoes
We did lose
That day
And eventually, I threw them away.
K Morris - Poet 