An angel in heels high
Caused a shepherd to sigh
And ponder on why
The red sky
At night
Brings him delight,
While come the dawn
He does mourn
And think on lost sheep
And perchance, weep.
Lost Sheep
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Category Archives: books
Forthcoming Interview On Croydon Radio (Saturday 26 November at 5:15 pm)
I am pleased to announce that Croydon Radio (http://croydonradio.com/) will be interviewing me, regarding my latest collection of poetry, “Refractions”, at 5:15 pm (UK time) on Saturday 26 November.
This is my second appearance on Croydon Radio. For my previous interview, in which I discuss my collection of poetry, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” please visit (http://moyhill.com/lost/assets/km-interview-croydon-radio-2016-04-09-16-00-53-edited-64k.mp3). For “Refractions please go to (https://www.amazon.com/Refractions-K-MORRIS-ebook/dp/B01L5UC2H2). For “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” please visit (https://www.amazon.co.uk/Lost-labyrinth-my-mind-Morris-ebook/dp/B01AF5EPVY). For my interview on Blogtalk Radio please visit, (https://newauthoronline.com/2016/10/17/poet-and-author-kevin-morris-interviewed-by-annette-rochelle-aben-on-blogtalk-radio/).
Kevin
There Was A Young Lady Called May
There was a young lady called May
Who spent all her time in play.
Her boss said,
As he shook his head,
“In this job you can not stay”!
There Was A Young Man Called Bert
There was a young man called Bert
Who was never very alert.
When they found him dead
The undertaker said,
“Now he is truly inert”!
How Nice It Is To Drink Coffee
How nice
To drink a coffee as I think
About what to write, but try as I might
There is no delight
For I find that coffee spilt
Wilt
My device break
And I have had to take
The darned thing almost thrice
To the store.
No more
Shall I drink
As I think
While sitting next to my machine
For I glean
That computers and drinks do not mix
And laptops can not always be fixed …!
The Seasons
Leaves swish, like water
As I walk through
Them to reach the park. ‘Tis true
Autumn is still here,
Yet, I fear that winter will give no quarter,
For each season does murder it’s daughter,
Who dies not but rather sleeps
And creeps
Forth to softly kill
Her father who will
Rise once more.
As it was before
So it will remain. The perpetual cycle
Of the seasons, a vital order does bring.
Spring
Follows winter stern.
Buds return
And soon,
Come summer, flowers will bloom.
Autumn imperceptibly doth replace
Summer’s flushed face,
While the Fall’s slow decay
Whispers “winter is on his way”.
You Are Unknown To Me
You are unknown to me.
True we made free
But who
Can see
Into the human heart?
Not I.
Fireworks die
And I
Am left alone with my art.
I have known many of your kind
And find
It strange how birds of diverse feather
Flock together.
Yet it is not so peculiar after all.
For in many a girl’s pretty face
We trace
Man’s fall
From grace
And Milton following,not far behind.
Poetry for Guy Fawkes Night
Image license obtained Copyright: mab0440 / 123RF Stock Photo
In honour of Bonfire or Guy Fawkes night, (November 5th), I am linking to some of my poems touching on that occasion:
Catherine Wheel
Autumn Rain
The Dark
There Was A Young Man Called Guy
There was a young man called Guy
Who, like Icarus, wanted to fly.
He jumped off Big Ben
At a quarter to ten.
I really don’t understand why!
Poppy
To those who died that you and me
Might live free.
To those who gave their sweet breath for King and Countrie.
I regret that yesterday
I had no cash to pay
For a poppy deep red
To remember the dead.
I will not know the stench
Of trench
Nor the wrench
Of fear
And pain as spear
Drains the life away.
What can the poet say
Who has never known
The touch of steel against bone?
We die alone
But most will peaceful go
And will not know
The woe
Of comrades lost,
Nor count the cost
Of bloody strife.
They will not give their life
That others (you and me)
May live free.
Having only my debit card I regret to say
That I could not buy
A blood red
Poppy to remember the dead
As I wended my way
To my nine to five job yesterday.
