Lorraine is a blind Author. She writes poetry, short stories and maintains a blog. She swears that she was born holding a pen. We have had Lorraine now in two of our anthologies, Fae Dreams and Faery Playground.
Lorraine is based in the UK where she lives with her husband and a rough collie she has named hope. Wheelchair bound, Lorraine is limited to what she is capable of. What she writes is amazing. Her blog, Blindwilderness.wordpress.com is fun and enjoyable to read.
There once was a poet named Lyme
Who wrote many a fine internal rhyme.
He met a girl named Pearl,
Who’s long blonde hair did curl.
But she disliked Lyme, and internal Rhyme
I know a young lady named Leigh
Who writes lots of extremely erotic poetry.
She is so very pretty,
And I am quite witty.
Do you think Leigh will marry me!
Me, much older.
Your head on my shoulder.
Your legs entwine with mine,
One, final, time.
Lust is like the ocean.
It’s tide carries us away.
Yet, unlike the great ocean,
Our lusts turn to clay.
A gentleman who liked to shoot grouse
Was delighted by a large flying mouse.
He said to his cat,
“I’ll eat my old hat.
Along with those grouse and that mouse!”.
I was pleased to receive this review of my Further Selected Poems.
“Footprints will go, / Covered by snow. / And this dear England of mine— / Is it all in my mind?”
I enjoyed reading K Morris’ book, Light and Shade, so I also picked up The Further Selected Poems of K Morris.
The Further Selected Poems of K Morris is different from his other book. In this one, the concept of death and mortality gets explored a lot, which is expected since his dog passed away recently. There still are some comedic poems toward the end but not as much as last time.
The rhyme schemes throughout this poems have gotten much better. I can tell that Morris has grown as a poet in a great way.
I do wish the collection…
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There is a young lady with a lute
Who works in a house of ill repute.
A vicar named Ted
Oft attends her sick bed –
He’s known for his love of the lute.
I met a young lady named Glover
Who is known as the phantom lover.
She stole my heart
And all my art.
And got shot by my dear mother!
Why do I rush to pass
Those who walk the churchyard path?
I reach my home
And leave behind the path
Along which all must pass,
To a place where bones
Find their final home,
Under a cold stone.
K Morris - Poet 