Author Archives: K Morris Poet

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About K Morris Poet

The purpose of this website (kmorrispoet.com) is to showcase my writing. For details of my published works, please click on the 'About' page of my blog.

Breakup

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Jayne felt safe wrapped in Luke’s strong arms. He kissed her tenderly on the lips. His breath smelled of rotten eggs,

“You need new Scents Of The Forest Breath Freshener, clinically proven to banish bad breath in an instant”, Jayne said pulling back in disgust.

Luke looked pained, “Why do you always sound like an advertising hoarding?” he asked his voice sharp with irritation.

“My super dupa Vision Max contact lenses, 2 for the price of 1, send cool messages about a range of inovative and exciting products to my brain and I just can’t help sharing them with the man I love”. Jayne replied.

Luke sniffed the air approvingly, “I love that perfume” he said.

“Perfume for you, why not buy two. I like it too” Jayne said in a sing song voice.

“Jayne I am becoming increasingly concerned about where this relationship is going. My girlfriend sounds more and more like a bad advertising executive who produces slogans which, over time become ever more dire” Luke said a look of sadness clouding his ruggedly handsome features.

“Its never to late, lets go to Relate, the relationship experts for every occasion. They are doing a special introductory offer at the moment, 25 per cent off if we sign up by Monday” Jayne said pointing to an advert which had just popped up on her new top of the range smartphone.

“I’m sorry darling I am afraid that it is to late for Relate” Luke replied fighting back tears.

“But its never too late for Relate. Just kille the hate, only relate” Jayne responded reading the ad which her top of the range contact lenses (did I mention they where 2 for the price of one?) had just beamed onto her retina.

“When we moved in together you where a vivacious, intelligent woman, now you are a mouthpiece for the advertising industry. It’s over Jayne” Luke said his eyes brimming with water.

“Oh the pain. I will go insane. I need Lane, those newly advertised tablets to kill the pain” said Jayne.

Beware The Future – It’s Closer than You Think. What The Internet of Things Means For Indie Authors. Part 1.

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Just suppose that strong data protection safeguards are built-in to the internet of things so your online viewing habits or what book you are reading do not get passed onto third parties without your own (very explicit permission). Suppose that some clever hackers hack Google or some other website and discover your browsing habits. Further suppose that the hackers have an agenda (for example a belief that erotica is morally unacceptable). They discover that you are a huge consumer of erotica and plaster this fact all over their website including your personal details (name, address etc) allowing their followers to harass and, possibly physically attack you (remember your personal details are on their site). I suspect that in the future (as in the present) people will be able to opt out of receiving ads, however the main concern (other than the misuse of information by authoritarian governments) will, as I said above come from hackers illegally harvesting your data. The idea of robot written novels doesn’t worry me as, in my opinion good writing will always have a market (he said hopefully)!

The International Indie Author's avatarMark Williams - The International Indie Author

Go Global In 2014

The problem with the future is, its coming up behind you. You can never be quite sure how far away it is, and you can never be quite sure whether it will sweep you up with it, sweep by and leave you behind, or just run right over you.

Over at the Motley Fool recently they ran this snippet from an old copy of Newsweek. From February 1995.

In it one Newsweek journalist opined,

“Visionaries see a future of telecommuting workers, interactive libraries, and multimedia classrooms… [They say] we’ll soon buy books and newspapers straight over the Internet. Uh, sure. The truth is no online database will replace your daily newspaper…

“We’re promised instant catalog shopping — just point and click for great deals. We’ll order airline tickets over the network, make restaurant reservations and negotiate sales contracts. Stores will become obsolete. So how come my local mall does more…

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I just found the stupidest 1 star review …

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One of the silliest reviews I have ever read.

Michelle Proulx's avatarMichelle Proulx - Author

I know I said I was busy packing and moving to Halifax, but I just stumbled across this one star review of Hush Hush and I had to share it because it’s so stupid. Here it is:

This book was for my daughter’s summer reading. She is still not done with it but hates reading. I’m sure the book is a good book but just not something that I’m interested in. I really didn’t rate it farely since I haven’t read it.

Who the hell leaves a one star review for a book they admittedly haven’t read and have no intention of reading? She says at the end that she didn’t rate it fairly, which is at least an attempt at sanity, but why on earth would she leave a review at all? Grrrrrrr.

Just needed to share this insanity. That is all.

Unrelated media of the day:

I’m currently…

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Paradise By Kevin Morris

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Show me paradise where information pumps like an ever flowing river through the brain. Show me Eden where we are always connected, where sad thoughts are drowned out by the chatter of the information superhighway. Show me happiness where chips smaller than a grain of sand control our emotions, where reality and the virtual meet, but to what end? Show me pleasure unbounded, love without strings where virtual partners fulfil our wildest dreams. Show me a world of smiling, happy people where the god of pleasure reigns and I will show you a kind of hell.

Ode On Melancholy By John Keats

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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Liverpool Garden

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The music of wind chimes intermitint and poignant speaks to me of far away lands where monks sit in silent meditation. Tibet, as yet unvisited but one day I will go and walk in the mountains, breathe the pure air.

A gentle breeze sings in the leaves, touches my sun kissed skin. Planes fly overhead but no birds sing.

A Liverpool garden on a late August day, ordinary yet extraordinary in it’s way.

When the Forest is Dark and the Light is Scarce

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Incredibly powerful and moving

amberskyef's avatar

depressed Source: http://depr-e-s-s-i-o-n.tumblr.com/

I always walk through the woods when it’s light outside. Yet, the more I walk through the woods, the darker the sky becomes. It’s not like it’s storming or anything. The light becomes less scarce, the forest thicker. The branches above become so interwoven that I can’t even see the stars. Only moonlight is able to trickle through the narrow spaces in the branches, but I can’t see anymore. My eyes try to adjust. They won’t. All I can do is feel my way around until I stumble on to the forest floor.

I cannot get back up.

Instead I drag  my body through the forest, waiting for daylight to break through. I should sleep; however, insomnia won’t let me. No matter how exhausted I am, I attempt to swim along the floor, its current of forest decay making my progress difficult.

Morning is too far away. I…

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A Walk In Woolton Woods

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This morning my mum, her partner, the 2 dogs and I visited Woolton Woods and Camp Hill which are a 10 minute drive from my mum’s home.

The ancient woods where full of the scent of newly mown grass, the heady smell being heightened by the showers which for brief periods chased the sun away.

Both the woods and Camp Hill which abut them contain many ancient oaks. I have always had an affinity with these great trees which derives from happy recollections of collecting acorns with my grandfather. I love the smooth feel of the outer shell of the acorn and how it contrasts with the softer seed within.

One huge oak branch lay on the ground. The wood felt hard to the touch indicating that it haden’t resided long on the woodland floor and was, perhaps a casualty of the recent after effects of the tail end of the hurricane which recently invaded our shores.

A large tree stump stood on the ground it’s roots still clearly visible. The great cycle had begun with grass growing out of this once venerable tree as, imperceptibly decay set in. In years to come this tree trunk will, no doubt fertilise the woodland floor allowing new saplings to take it’s place.

Feeling a little self conscious I tried to put my arms around a huge oak. Unsurprisingly they reached barely halfway round the trunk. The rough bark felt good under my hands, the tree and I sharing a connection – both products of nature’s rich tapestry. This great oak and the others surrounding it have been there long before I was born and unless a mighty natural disaster uproots them will remain long after I have ceased to be. Whenever I see ancient trees the paltry arrogance of humanity is put firmly in it’s place. Those oaks have doubtless seen generations come and go, people living what, for them are lives full of meaning while the great trees look on silently watching generation succeed generation.

The Dog That Barked In The Night

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Woof, woof, the sound of a dog barking disturbing my slumbers. Awoken from deep dream filled sleep I lie in bed wondering why this rude awakening, am I being robbed? Jumping out of bed my feet encounter wooden floor boards. Uncarpetted floors, that isn’t right for my floors are covered in thick carpet, have the thieves stolen the carpets as I slept? Then it all comes back to me. I am staying at my mum’s in Liverpool where only rugs cover the bedroom floor. I have stepped onto an uncovered segment of flooring.

I exit the bedroom and in bare feet make my way downstairs to let out Trigger, my guide dog who appears determined not only to disturb the household but mum’s neighbours. My 4 legged friend does what comes naturally in the garden and returns, tail wagging extremely pleased with his early morning business. I mount the stairs hoping that sleep will, once more overcome me.