What does it matter that you sing,
High up in yonder tree,
For your song is not for me,
And to sing
Is such a temporary thing
What Does It Matter?
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Author Archives: K Morris Poet
Shouting Into The BlackForest
A young child, at the edge of a vast forest, calls out
“is there anybody there?”
The silence echos back at him, as it has always done. But, sooner or later something may answer his call. Will it be a large, friendly Labrador, with it’s tail wagging furiously that comes rushing out of the forest’s black interior to greet him, or a pack of ravenous wolves. He knows not, yet he continues to call.
—
Is not the above, rather like our obsession with finding “aliens”? I don’t know whether they exist, but our obsession with shouting into the dark forest may, sooner or later result in us finding out. Perhaps the confirmation of the existence of aliens will be the last knowledge we, as humans gain …
neelwrites/writephoto/thursdayphotoprompt/hole/12/05/2017/
A JUNGLE STORY
Thursday photo prompt – Green #writephoto
#writephoto
By Neel Anil Panicker
Inspector Iqbal Khan was in a bad mood. He had never been inside a jungle.
The closest he had come to a wooded experience was when as a kid he and his cousins had scaled the seven-foot-high walls of the sprawling farmhouse adjacent to their ancestral village house and scurried back again, the pockets of their cotton half pants bulging with ripened Alphonsos, the King of Indian mangoes.
‘Sir, be careful. There are a lot of snakes around here,’ said his prisoner, adding, ‘every year quite a few people die here of snake bites.’
Inspector Khan felt froth forming in his mouth.
A stab of pain shot up his chest.
Though only mid afternoon, darkness had descended.
The two were in the heart of a dark jungle. All he could see was…
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There Was A Young Lady Called Gale
There was a young lady called Gale
Who lived in a place named Hale.
She had a brother, Sid
And the things they did,
Made the vicar quail!
Book Launch for “My Old Clock I Wind” by Kevin Morris
During my interview with Ariadne Sawyer, of Vancouver Co-op Radio’s the World Poetry Reading Series, on 4 May, (http://worldpoetry.ca/?p=11765), I was asked about my plans as regards my forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind And Other Poems”. Ariadne’s question prompted me to get my skates on, as it brought home the fact that I had given little thought to the idea of a physical (real world) launch of “My Old Clock”.
I am planning a book launch in late June. The launch will take place in the function room of my favourite local pub, The Railway bell, (http://www.rampubcompany.co.uk/visit-pubs/railway-bell).
The pub is within easy reach of rail and bus connections, it being approximately 25 minutes from London Victoria to Gipsy Hill or Crystal Palace stations.
I will, of course post further details once the arrangements are confirmed. If you have any queries in the meantime, please contact me at newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com. (The address is rendered in this manner to defeat spam).
Mermaid and Merman
“Our love is deep as the sea,
And There is such depth to you and me.
We go so far down,
We will in passion drown”,
(the mermaid said,
As she wriggled her toes,
On the ocean’s bed).
“Poseidon knows,
How the tide comes and goes,
My pretty rose”,
(I said,
With a shake of my head,
As I departed our briny bed).
The Magic Order
Once grown
We are thrown
Out of that magic place
Where the fairy’s face
Is by children seen.
The fairy queen
We may perceive
From afar,
Yet we must remember who we are
As it does grieve
Her when an adult crosses the border,
And disturbs the sacred order
—
Children should be allowed to be children, and not forced to grow up before their time.
There Was A Young Lady Called Lott
There was a young lady called Lott
Who, feeling rather hot,
Decided to sunbathe in the nude.
Some thought her extremely rude,
But the photographer did not
It Catchs Up With You
It catches up with you, in the end,
Although its easy to pretend
That the late nights
And fights
With an unknown friend
Under the sheet
Will not defeat
Roistering youth.
The truth
Oft creeps
Up on a man as he sleeps.
Or when, on seeing nature’s beauty he weeps
Over something irredeemably lost,
And counts the cost for a while,
Then with a weary smile
Returns to the merry-go-round
Which will spin him round, and round and round
Man’s Distain
I remember when the rain
Did maintain
A more or less steady beat.
Now my feet
Can not a puddle
Find, for nature is in a muddle.
And man’s distain
Will not conjure the rain.
