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Author Archives: K Morris Poet
Leaf
what am I to do with you?
You came into the flat on my shoe.
Autumn is at an end.
Into the bin you must descend.
Green leaves must go
Before winter snow
Blankets the land
And trees stand,
Their branches bare
In the frost laden air.
What Would Your Youthful Library Record Say About You?
What would your youthful library record say about you? An interesting question and one addressed by John Crace (amongst others) in yesterday’s Guardian, (http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/dec/03/youthful-library-record-haruki-murakami-belle-de-jour).
I, like John Crace, used to enjoy reading the Biggles books. Indeed I still have a copy of “Biggles Millionaire” on the bottom shelf of the bookcase in my living room. A good old fashioned yellow hardback book. I also still possess H. G. Wells “The Time Machine” and his “War Of The Worlds”, together with Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty-Four” (although the latter is missing one Braille volume. Heaven only knows what happened to that)! I must have been an extremely boring teenager as I have no recollection of reading anything salacious unless one counts a rather abridged version, on audio cassette of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” which, I must confess I did not enjoy reading.
Kevin
Struck
I look as I walk by
You smile back
Walking ahead
As our souls scream out
Frantically reaching hands
The same eternal longing
Throughout
…five thousand lifetimes
Pulling at us
To please
…give in
How deep is this ocean of feeling
we have set our hearts in
Yet here we are
…Pacing the shore again
Pretending with nods and smiles
While inside
The thunderstorm of connection
has knocked all the power out
Maybe no one would notice
…if I reach for you in the dark
Listen To The Birds
Standing at the station
reading the news of this nation
I became conscious of birds.
The words
I was reading
the thoughts they where feeding
seemed irrelevant.
This earth we are leant.
To much time is spent
lost in thought.
Additional hours can not be bought.
Oh listen to the birds
not the words
And learn to be
Free!
—
Being blind I have software on my mobile which enables the content of the screen to be spoken aloud (http://www.nuance.com/for-individuals/mobile-applications/talks-zooms/index.htm). Several days ago, I was reading the news at the station when I became aware of the birds singing. This prompted the above poem.
Living It Large
What is behind the façade
of those who live it large?
A girl on the make.
She takes
what a poor girl can.
He has no plan
apart from fun.
Together they run.
The sun
will always shine.
The band will always play
and the hay
will be forever sweet
as they dance with nimble feet
without a care
upon the air.
Old Father Time
clears his throat
as the band strikes a sour note.
—
(The reference to dancing with nimble feet upon the air is a reference to Oscar Wilde’s “The Balad of Reading Gaol”. “it is not sweet, with nimble feet, to dance upon the air”, which is, of course a reference to men dangling from the hangman’s rope).
Clover
‘Tis long since over.
We are know longer in clover.
In truth we never where.
I stare
At the screen.
The dream
Is gone
And life moves on.
Is There A Link Between Depression And Creativity?
I can’t answer for anyone else, but for me writing helps to combat the insidious effects of long time PTSD.
A Dialogue
There is a frame of mind
that says “leave as you find.
Let the great oak alone
and spare the ancient stone
for they serve a purpose
if one looks beneath the surface
of things”.
Others bring
to bare a mind
which no beauty doth find
in oak and stone
“for they stand in the way
Of a brighter day”.
“But if you pull the tree down
what then supports the ground?
For the roots go deep
and people weep
when the oak falls
on ancient halls”.
“Let us wield the axe and be glad
for the old ways are bad.
New seed we will sow
The past must go”.
They are arguing still
As the sun sinks
o’er vale and hill.
Swan
The restless wind
calls to the unquiet mind.
I see a swan upon a lake.
A serene
queen
she glides through the water
as some daughter
of the gods.
A man hidden in the reeds
scarcely breathes
for fear
she will notice him near.
The swan sings.
Her song brings
sweet melancholy to his soul.
The whole
scene
he dreamed
awakening to the restless wind
that calls to the unquiet mind.
