They found, in old Pompeii
The ruins of brothels.
What will they say
When they find the remains
Of our passing day?
They Found, in Old Pompeii
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Category Archives: musings
Anthologised
When anthologised
The poet’s work survives.
He dies.
But every pure thought
(And kink)
Is, forever caught
In ink.
Therefore, I think
That the poet, most wise
Ought to shrink
From being anthologised …
The Man of Pleasure Knows
The man of pleasure knows
That behind the bright light
And girls of the night,
The rose
Turns to dust.
And all his lust
Will be
As she.
A Guide To Getting Published In UK Poetry Magazines
Hypocrisy
You see them,
Ghosts, standing under lamp posts,
Waiting for men.
And judge them (or not),
As the case may be).
Yet you hear not
The knock
On anonymous door
Of She
You call “whore”.
And, when she
In her heels steals away
Few have anything to say.
And her clientele,
They rarely tell.
Bird
Yesterday, in the early morning,
I heard you speak.
Just your bleak
Cry and I,
Ere the light was dawning.
I think on Macbeth
And the impending death
Of another year.
A bird, often unheard,
But forever here.
A Poem for November 5th (Bonfire Night)
In honour of bonfire or Guy Fawkes Night, I am reproducing below my poem “Catherine Wheel”, which can be found in “The Selected Poems of K Morris”:
Catherine Wheel
Sometimes I feel
Like a Catherine wheel;
My words as sparks,
Lighting the dark.
But who in December
Remembers
The fifth of November?
—
“The Selected Poems of K Morris” is available as a Kindle download or in paperback from Amazon, https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ and https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/.
Unreal City
Eliot spoke of an “unreal city”.
I could, perhaps, say something witty.
But, in this great city
A second lockdown starts today,
So there is nothing witty
I can say.
Read “The Wasteland”
For Eliot’s command
Of language surpasses mine.
‘Tis a bitter wine,
But, does, perhaps convey
What I wish to say.
Hairband
You removed your hairband.
Not at my command.
But you knew my desire.
A play with fire.
Trapped, in a rhyme
Of youth, and Father Time.
The Past
The past
Is a sleeping dog.
As, when it wakes
It barks
And frequently bites.
