Her profession
Was discretion.
His obsession
Was her profession.
Hearing their confession
Was the priest’s profession …
Profession
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Category Archives: newauthoronline
Why Do You Seek The Perfect Rose?
Why do you seek the perfect rose?
For heaven knows
That it’s scent
Is all too soon spent.
Results of the competition to win a print copy of “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems” by Kevin Morris
On 8 June, I launched a competition offering my readers a chance to win a free, signed copy of my forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, https://newauthoronline.com/2017/06/08/your-chance-to-win-a-signed-print-copy-of-poet-kevin-morriss-forthcoming-collection-of-poetry-my-old-clock-i-wind-and-other-poems/.
I am pleased to announce that the winner is Annette Rochelle Aben, https://annetterochelleaben.wordpress.com/
Congratulations to Annette who wins a signed copy of my book.
The answer to the question I set on 8 June, is “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes.
To read this wonderful English balad please go to https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/43187
Venerable Old Clock
I saw 2 men who did contend
Over who could a clocks hand’s bend.
I feared it would break
As one did a forward motion make,
While the other pushed back.
The mechanism shivered
But did not crack.
Those men are at it still
And will
Not be content
Until that venerable old clock is rent
Asunder,
For like a dog with a bone
They can not leave it alone.
Forgive them, for they know not what they plunder
There Was A Young Lady Called Bess
There was a young lady called Bess
Who wore a very short dress.
The vicar’s daughter walked by
And said, with a sigh
“Would that I could that way dress!”
Knowledge
Knowledge I possess (and a degree),
But the wind free
Laughs at me
As he
Shakes yonder bending tree
Pips
Dancing
Unwilling
But needing
That shilling.
They desiring
Her to dance
But needing
No romance.
A red apple she takes
And slakes
Their need
To feed.
Her bust.
Their lust.
Apple pips
And dust.
False Memory
“If there be such a thing
As false memory,
Why then does recollection sting
As a demented wasp?
The physical pain
May go, but the buzz
Does remain,
Churning,
Returning
Again and again.
The lunatics have taken over the asylum
But who are the lunatics and who are the sane?
And why in the brain
Does the imaginary sting
Remain?
The plays the thing
Wherein we’ll catch the conscience of the king”.
“But Claudius is long since dead
And Hamlet is mad”,
The doctor said.
Tennis
She plays
And the last rays
Of the setting sun
Catch her hand
That can command
An ocean.
A final motion
Of her wrist
And their game is done.
Scythes
Harken
As gardeners their scythes
Sharpen
And see, how the skies
Darken.
