There was a young lady named Beth
Who said, “I don’t believe in death”.
But, as she grew older
The world became ever colder,
And she started to believe in death.
There Was A Young Lady Named Beth
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Category Archives: musings
In The Garden of Delight
In the garden of delight
Both day and night
The flower’s perfume
Enters the lover’s room.
Blouses are lost.
The mushroom
Rises. The frost
Will chill
The flower and mushroom,
Oh, so soon.
Girls Shoes
I find
That girls shoes
Prey on my mind
From time to time.
Did they choose
To wear those shoes?
(I speak here
Of women of a particular kind).
I fear
That stilettos,
Worn by girls from ghettos
Prey on my mind,
Although you will find
That there are a few
Young middle class women too.
To and Fro
The razor does go
To and fro
As he shaves me.
We speak of women,
And his hands go
To and fro.
“Would you like anything else?”, he asks,
His task
Maybe, complete.
I think of young women’s feet
But say,
“Not today”.
Her Sweet Laughter
Your witty
Word, heard
By a pretty
Girl, produces laughter.
And after
Her sweet laughter,
You dream
Of dinner and wine,
For ’tis a fine
Thing to dream
Decay
I smell the decay
On an autumn day.
I shall rhyme
For a time,
For fallen leaves
Do not deceive.
General Election Humour
The Labour Manifesto says this,
Whilst the Conservatives says that,
And the Downing Street cat
Thinks it such great bliss,
When it smells a rat.
Show Not Tell
A young woman, of 20 or so
And a man, old enough to be her father,
Booked into a cheap, backstreet hotel.
You know
Very well, that the writer should show,
But would you rather
I tell?
Coffer
She wants what he has to offer,
A coffer,
Although, she would not understand the word.
Poor bird
You feed
On meagre
seed
From one who is reluctant, eager,
And does not, really, see, thee.
The Bliss of Solitude
I do enjoy the company of friends and, on average meet up for drinks and/or a meal, once or twice a week. I am especially fond of sitting near an open log fire, whilst enjoying a couple of pints with close friends in a traditional pub. I do, however also have the reputation of being fond of my own company which is, I think a trait shared by most (I suspect all) writers.
I well remember, on my 18th birthday, going to bed whilst the party was still in full swing. It was, after all my party and the person who’s party it is does, surely have the right to retire to bed when he chooses!
The need for my own space has remained with me, and one of the ways in which it manifests itself is in my need to be left alone when writing.
My need for solitude whilst writing is well provided for as I live alone, so can sit in my spare room (which I glorify with the title of study) and write undisturbed, other than by the occasional entrance of my guide dog who, on occasions nudges me with his cold wet nose, or presents me with his blanket demanding attention!
When writing, I usually ignore the ringing of my landline and turn my mobile off. I do answer the door in case of it being a delivery. But other than that I am, whilst writing fairly antisocial.
To be interrupted while composing a poem is very irritating. It breaks my flow and its often difficult (sometimes impossible) to return to the poem as the moment of inspiration has been lost.
So engrossed in my writing do I become that I have been known, whilst making a cup of coffee but with my mind still on writing, to put the jar of coffee in the fridge or to pour cold water into my cup. As I say, don’t disturb me when writing!
As I said at the beginning of this post, I do enjoy the company of family and friends. However, when family come to stay (or I go to visit them), I find it difficult to write unless I am in a separate room, with the door closed, or they go out of the house. So, when other people are around I tend to wait until I have a room to myself or they go out shopping!
There is, of course a balance to be struck as regards my need for quiet whilst writing, and the common courtesies one must observe when staying with others. I love time spent with family and friends but there will always be a part of me which craves (and needs) what Wordsworth described as “the bliss of solitude”.
Kevin
K Morris - Poet 