I spend much of my time
Composing in rhyme,
But do not therefore curse
Free verse,
For sometimes that shoe
Will do
Very well,
While to force a rhyme
(where no rhyme should be)
Is to mangle poetry.
Rhyme Or Verse Free
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Category Archives: musings
When A Very Old Man Of Stroud
When a very old man of Stroud
Said, “death be not proud”,
Death replied, “you know,
We must together go,
And leave this earthly crowd”.
In Woods Green
In woods green
Nymphs were sometimes seen
By mortal men.
Now when
Girls I see in short clothes,
Their toes
Bare, to the sultry air
I wonder where
All the inocence has gone.
Yet Aphrodite
Was flighty
(Was she not?,
And on hot
London nights
Phone calls will be made
And visits paid
By aphrodite, to oh so mortal men
Men Mowing
As I at lessons sat
In school
(Generally obeying the rule),
I oft did hear,
Sometimes far, at others near,
A sound clear,
That of men mowing,
Knowing where they where going.
On my way home tonight
I had the delight
Of smelling new mown grass,
Which brought to mind
A more settled time
When I at lessons sat
Reading rhyme,
And men were amowing
Knowing where they where going.
Sometimes I almost weep,
When I think on what my country may reap.
The Girl Who Wasn’t There, by K Morris
In September 2015, I released “The Girl Who Wasn’t there”. You can find a book trailer (which includes me reading “Dolls”, a poem included in this collection, here
You can find “The Girl Who Wasn’t There” on Amazon
For a video of my friend, Shanelle reading the title poem please see below
At Summer’s Height
At summer’s height
Girls delight
In short frocks.
And, on occasions, choose
To lose
Their shoes
And socks.
For by going bare
To the summer air
They find there
The joy of youth.
At summer’s height
The poet takes delight
In girls who
Go without shoe
Or sock,
For they sense not
Time’s, impending, knock.
Words Thrown Out
Words thrown out
Dance about
And float into the sky
Or, as lead balloons, die.
Graveyard
All around
I hear
The sound
Of birds in the graveyard near
To my home.
As I walk alone,
Through this place of bone,
A thought profound,
“Those underground
Can not hear”.
Thrown Away
In a vase you stay.
Soon you will be thrown away
In a bin.
How can I atone for the sin
Of removing you from nature’s embrace
To this urban place?
I sentimentalise its true
For you never knew
Nature’s embrace,
But doctored grew
In a place
Of glass
Where people pass
And say
“Customers will pay
Good money for that rose
But, I suppose
This other lot should be thrown away”.
‘Tis man who should count the cost
Of nature’s lost
Embrace
As we on keyboards clack
For we lack
The will
To stand still
And listen to the bird,
For the word
heard is “progress”, symbolised by
Doctored flowers, that in a vase, die.
If You Dare
If you dare
To say
(in the politest possible way)
That “the people in their judgement err”,
I swear
That the person of narrow mind
Will find
Some ugly word to throw at you.
“Fascist” or “elitist” they will cry.
I know that it is untrue,
But ’tis easier to lie
(Though inwardly you die),
Than to speak the truth
And have the roof
Come down on you,
For speaking what is true.
