I have sat round the open pub fire
And discussed the rights and wrongs of empire,
And the ends
Of men
With friends.
But when
I walk through fallen leaves,
The ends
Of men
I truly perceive.
Thinking of a girl he’s never met,
And perhaps he,
Will never see.
Memories of heels and skirts.
And flirts
(Who where not).
Momentary joy, close followed by regret
And pain,
Maybe he
Will do it all again.
But, If so, for what?
A brief hot
Rush,
A flush
Of pleasure.
Recollections of girl’s scent,
Then repent
At leisure.
I love
The dark heart
Of the wood.
But the black
Has been cut back
Allowing me
To see
Where the mystery
Should be.
Yet the dark
And the light
Fight
Within me,
Still, and will
Do so
Until I go
Into the night,
And become forever part
Of the dark,
And the light.
I met a young lady named Ling
Who said, “you poets are all left-wing!”.
I said, “between you and I,
Eliot was a Conservative kind of guy,
Whilst Philip Larkin was really right-wing!”.
Lonely at night?
You can delight
In the company
Of beautiful me!
There are no strings to tie.
You to me.
I
Can be
Whatever you wish me to be,
And I’ve uniforms galore
(and more),
so come visit me!
Or, if you prefer
My friend Claire
Can make it 3.
She has long blonde hair,
While I’m a brunette.
Please, come and see me,
And don’t forget,
The little matter of the fee …
There is something about the song
Of birds, on a cold, January day,
That makes me wish to stay,
Out in this wood,
Where
The air
Is good.
There song
Is long
As joy, or grief.
Although, we know
That joy is, too often brief.
The smile
Oft flits across the face, then is gone
While
Grief
Lives on
In the hearts of men
Who, when
They hear the birds
Pour out words,
To our feathered friends,
Who comprehend
Not our ends).
My dog revels in the sscents of grass,
Whilst I
Look up to the sky
And think “all this will pass”,
(A thought that he can not grasp).
Yet he, and the birds that fly,
Are happier than I.
Why must I
Attempt to capture
Every rapture,
Or simple pleasure?
The weather
Is there to be enjoyed,
Be it fine or wet,
Yet
The joy of a beautiful day
May
So easily be destroyed
By a poor rhyme.
Time
Will not stay
For the poet who,
In rhyme
Describes her black stiletto shoe
And oh so short skirt,
(although they
Did nothing do,
But flirt).
The beauty of a Christine,
Or a Claire,
With their luxuriant hair
Survives, pristine,
On the page,
Whilst they,
And the poet
Age,
Turn grey.
Then, fade away.
In rhyme, we leave something behind.
A part of the mind
Lives on,
Although we are gone.
Perhaps that is why
I
Spend so much of my time
In rhyme.
Looking back at 2019, I was delighted and honoured to appear on Vancouver Co-Op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series, to discuss (and read from) my “Selected Poems”. You can find a link to my interview here, https://worldpoetry.ca/?p=14784. and my “Selected Poems” is available here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for the UK), and here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WW8WXPP/ (for amazon.com customers).
I was surprised and honoured when, in October, I received a Certificate of Honour, Appreciation and Gratitude from the World Poetry Reading Series, https://kmorrispoet.com/2019/10/24/world-poetry-international-canada-certificate-of-honour-appreciation-and-gratitude-awarded-to-poet-kevin-morris/.
Earlier in 2019, I launched my Instagram, which can be found here, https://www.instagram.com/kmorrispoet/.
May I close by wishing all of my readers a very happy new year. If your 2019 has not been a good one, I do hope that the new year turns out to be much better for you.
Kevin
Its a misty day.
Shake my fist,
Though I may,
I can not chase
The mist
Away.
I have kissed,
And forgot the mist
In love and wine,
For a time.
But, on this foggy day,
I know
That, shake my fist
Though I may,
That I shall go
Into the mist,
One misty day.
Magpies chatter in a winter sky,
And as I
Traverse this woodland track
I look back
And think on the half-lie
We call progress.
The thoughtful squire,
Sitting by his study fire,
Or on hearing the magpies
chatter,
May have had the same thought as I;
That dreams of utopia,
Shatter,
And turn to distopia
Of the Marxist, or laissez-faire kind.
I would rather the country squire
And the open log fire
Than a society
Where variety
Is spurned, in favour of uniformity.
Or a world where value is defined
By the bottom line,
And nothing is divine.
