At 6 am
I awake to rain.
Today I may smile
And perchance recall
There is no artifice
In the rain.
Artifice
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Category Archives: books
Bust
I may compose a rhyme
To your perfect bust.
But, in course of time
We lovers will find
Our bed midst graveyard dust.
There Once Was a Nymph Named Echo
There once was a nymph named Echo
Who spent all her days drinking Prosecco.
When they said, “is that nice?”,
She would repeat their words twice,
And then she would drink more Prosecco!
Poet Kevin Morris Interviewed on the World Poetry Reading Series
On Monday 12 February, I was interviewed by Ariadne Sawyer of the World Poetry Reading Series. During my interview, I read and discussed my poetry.
You can find a link to the podcast here, https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-for-feb-15-2024-kevin-morris-and-tanis-parenteau/
. My segment appears approximately 31 minutes into the podcast and runs for about 11 minutes. In addition, I read a final poem at the end of the show.
My thanks to Ariadne Sawyer of the World Poetry Reading Series for taking the time to interview me.
There Once Was a Vampire Named Dawn
There once was a vampire named Dawn
Who liked to dance on the lawn.
When they said, “is that good?”,
She would say, “I like blood.
Won’t you join me on this lawn?”.
Hope
There was heavy rain
In the churchyard
As I hurried by
Cold old stones.
Later the sun came,
And early flowers
Groped for the spring.
Cultured Miss Marr
A cultured young lady known as Marr
Has a job in a rough bar.
When she quotes Shakespeare
The customers all cheer
And dance with Marr on the bar!
Waitresses
I have taken delight
In Waitresses at night
And in the morning find
The same cold rain
And thoughts of the waitress
I so lovingly undressed
In my so fertile mind.
Here Comes a Chopper to Chop Off my Head!
When a wicked young man named Ted
Said, “I shall chop off your head!”,
And his friend Max
Passed him an axe,
I found I was dreaming in bed!
Grass
Some men take their pleasure
Amidst the sweet heather
With a pretty young lass.
But all grass
Turns to hay
And the poor poet’s lay
Must end in dust.
K Morris - Poet 