Category Archives: musings

The Dead May Speak, Through The Poet’s Art

The dead may speak,
Through the poet’s art.
His readers may weep.
Yet, some things run so deep,
They can not be expressed in art.

I Face My Darkening Window

I face my darkening window.
My curtain
Will shut out the night.
I know
Morning’s light
Must come.
But who can be certain
That he
Will see
The sun?

Takeaway

You can find
Any kind
Of takeaway.
Thai or Chinese.
Or whatever you please
Is online.

But, you must pay
A fee
For your takeaway.
As to dine
Does not come free

And, after
the wine
And laughter,
Your delivery will depart,
Leaving no broken heart.

There Is Snow On The Lawn

A couple of weeks ago, I composed a poem entitled “December Snow”, which was subsequently read by me on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series.

Today I awoke to find the lawn covered in late December snow, so thought I would re-post my reading of the poem, http://www.coopradio.org/content/world-poetry-caf%C3%A9-120.

December Snow:

A typical, December day.
The sun has stopped
Away,
And the temperature has dropped.
The forecasters say
There may
Be snow.
I well remember the December
Snow.
And playing on frozen pond.
But oh, so long Ago!
And I shall grow
Old. and remember December
Snow.
We count the cost
Once things are lost.
And the foolish, wishing to sunbathe,
Pray for the coming heatwave.

https://kmorrispoet.com/2020/12/04/december-snow/

Waking, Much Later Than Intended

Waking, much later than intended
I see
The pretended,
And rush to make tea.
For my fun
is ended
And we must run.
I to my desk
And she
Home, to her rest.

Delight for a night
Maybe mine,
Again, for a time.
To rhyme
Is free
And tea
Is cheap.
While her smile
Will beguile
For a while

Sparrows In A Tree

A myriad sparrows singing
To me from a tree.
Their song
Bringing joy
To girl and boy.

I know not how long
My song
May be.
But sparrows in a tree,
Sang to me.

This Clock

This wine
Is not divine.
Yet it is good.
The sun may shine
On me tomorrow.
And the clock on the wall
Has no will at all.

Nameless women survive in a rhyme
And time
Would laugh, if it could
At poets who obsess
Over their reputation,
And the unknowing tick tock,
Of the uncaring, ensnaring clock.