Invisible notches in bedposts.
Do neighbours see ghosts
Enter and depart?
They leave not their heart
Behind.
Yet he does find
Invisible notches.
Indelible blotches
Which, from time to time,
Plague his mind.
On my way to the pub,
I look at the empty sky
Above,
And think
On drink,
And love
But there is only this winter sky
Above,
And the awaiting fire
I
So desire,
In the pub
A few days ago, I received a receipt from the British Library, confirming that my “Selected Poems” has been added to their shelves/catalogue.
Under UK law a copy of every publication, published in the United Kingdom, (print and electronic), must be provided to the British Library, and to 5 other UK libraries on request.
The responsibility for furnishing copies rests with publishers which, (in the case of self-published authors) in effect means that they must provide their published works to the British Library and (if requested to do so) to the 5 other UK libraries.
The above system (which is known as Legal Deposit) helps to preserve the nation’s cultural heritage for the benefit of authors and readers alike.
You can read more about Legal Deposit here, https://kmorrispoet.com/2017/03/10/legal-deposit-for-self-published-and-other-authors/.
The paperback edition of my “Selected Poems“, (which is held by the British Library) is available from Amazon and can be found here, https://www.amazon.com/Selected-Poems-K-Morris/dp/1688049800
A linger
Of fingers,
(Of her’s, on his).
She has no ring.
Yet imagination is
A thing
Not to be believed.
Was he
Deceived
By fingers
That lingered
Maybe,
Longer, than was strictly
Necessary?
When a young lady named Claire
Said, “we should stop this affair!”,
I looked at her quizzically
And said, “please, remind me,
When did we start an affair!”.
When,
At a little after 5 am
I awake.
I think it late.
“Can you hear the birds?”,
You said.
Alone, in my bed,
I remember your words,
So much unsaid
By a girl who
I scarcely knew,
For a night is not long.
Yet, you took me far beyond
Sin, with the beauty of birdsong.
Entranced, he watched the dance,
As the girl
Did whirl,
Her feet
Kicking up the dust
Of poets, and dancers,
And other chancers,
Who you may meet
And pass, on the street
Without a second glance.
And the age-old dance
Goes on,
But the dust
Of those long gone
Is not disturbed
By a young woman’s dancing feet
Sinful delight
At night
As she, petite
And slim,
Slides in,
Next to him.
Then, beneath the sheet,
Her pleasure she does take,
For a while,
With a smile,
And partake
Of Chocolate cake.
She wrote in her spiral
Notebook. Her pen
Being men.
Some words go viral,
But in her spiral
Notebook, they go round
And round
Again
And again.
Or, maybe, ’tis broken men
Who take up their female pen
And write, again
And again.
‘Tis both women And men
Who employ the same,
Old pen.
And oft times leave behind,
A broken, mind
My clock’s chime
Is out of time,
Yet I care not
For I see
In my clock
A protest, against modernity.
K Morris - Poet 