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.
I sit in this winter sun
And think how, when a poem is done,
And out there, for the world to see,
That it can not be
Undone by me.
But, perhaps, my readers will never see.
Whilst drinking beer
I think on the queer
Ways in which men choose
To lose
Their cash.
Some, in a moment rash
To the cassino go
And stake, what they have not got,
On fortune’s wheel,
And complain of a rraw deal
When they lose all.
Others for a callgirl fall.
Her kisses are divine
And the wine
To. but, between me and you
The company
Isn’t free,
And its no surprise
That the smile, in her eyes
Fades away
When he can no longer pay.
And, when the debt collector is at the door
The cassino
And the pretty whore
Have no
interest in him, anymore.
Ghetto girl, some middle-class
Boy’s fantasy.
He
Likes brass,
So will wine
And dine
You. so enjoy your time
And smile
For a while.
He likes a bit of rough
But,, when he’s had enough
He’ll throw you away,
And maybe pay
Cash to keep you quiet.
As there would be a riot
If his respectable mum
Finds out how her son
Gets his fun.
Believe me
Its true,
That you
Wont be
Taking afternoon tea
With his mum.
But you knew
That your fun
Would, one day be done,
Or, perhaps,
Poor ghetto lass
You romanticised
A middle-class
Guy.
She
Kept
Her heels on for me,
Then left
Them behind.
Now I find
That those expensive, girlie stilettos
Stick in my mind.
I wonder what happened to you,
The young woman from private school
Who broke the rule
And left
Her heels behind,
Which I kept
For a time,
And now remember in rhyme.
