There was a young poet called Leigh
Who wrote using free verse.
Sometimes she would find
That not using rhyme
Was a bit of a bind,
So wrote using verse that was free!
There Was A Young Poet Called Leigh
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Category Archives: newauthoronline
Your chance to win a signed (print) copy of poet Kevin Morris’s forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”
I am offering the opportunity to win a signed (print) copy of my forthcoming collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”, which will be published, by Moyhill Publishing later this month. In order to enter please answer the following question:
What is the name of the famous English balad from which the following lines are taken
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, …”.
Please email your answers to newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com. Please put “Competition to win a copy of “My Old Clock I Wind” in the subject line of your email. Please do not provide the answer in the comments of this post (as everyone will be able to read your answer)! The first person to furnish the correct answer wins a free, signed copy of “My Old Clock”. Good luck!
Kevin
Autumnal
The sound of a blackbird
By me heard
As I savour Autumn’s scent,
After a day spent
In old London Town.
A myriad of leaves have fallen down
Today
(and trees too they say),
But it is all to soon
For ‘Tis only June …
—
(Note: This poem was prompted by my walk home from work, on 6 June. The evening felt Autumnal, despite it being early June).
Kevin Morris’s poem “Feather” published on Rhyme
Many thanks to Victoria for publishing my poem, “Feather” on her excellent site, Rhyme. To read my poem please visit, https://rhymepoetry.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/feather/.
I Dreamed
I dreamed
And in my dream it seemed
To me that I did look
Upon my book.
It’s back
Did my photograph lack
And what had been
Could no longer be seen.
Grace
She changes from jeans to a dress,
To impress for a while,
And bring a smile
To the face
Of a man who slips
Ever further from grace.
Who Knows?
Some thought his poetry meant this
And still others that.
He wore a hat
Sometimes
And often (being lost in rhymes)
Went out with no raincoat.
He had no moat
And little private wealth.
The reader sighs
Trying to categorise
The poet’s view.
Some declare that he was a Tory of the deepest blue
(while others protest this was not true!).
A few saw a man of the left,
But found themselves bereft
On finding verse which (they say)
Romanticised the nobility of yesterday.
Perhaps the poet smiles somewhere
(or, perchance he doesn’t care),
For who knows
Where the rhymer goes
When his ink runs dry
And his words finally die.
In The Wood’s Dark Heart
In the wood’s dark
Heart the breeze
Whispers in the trees
Words that I can not comprehend.
May god send
Me peace
And this breeze
Never cease.
There is a quiet place
The horrific terrorist attack, which took place in London on the evening of 4 June, brought to mind my poem “There is a quiet place out of reach”. Those who carried out this atrocity have “empty souls”, indeed some may doubt whether they possess any soul whatever. Had it not been for the swift action of the police, in shooting dead the terrorists, this terrible incident could have been even worse. Fanaticism and barbarism must be withstood and defeated.
Kevin
“There is a quiet place out of reach
To those who hatred preach.
They prate,
And understand too late,
Or perhaps not at all,
That pride comes before a fall.
Words meaningful as a harlot’s compliment fall
On the ear
Of men who hear what they want to hear.
The truth clear
Is, I fear,
Too often lost in sound and beer.
The fanatic’s words drear
Will fill the empty soul
Of those whose goal
Is the destruction of the whole
Liberal project;
To which they object
Without knowing why.
Then, pointlessly, die”.
Who is worse, the tempter or the sinner?
Who is worse? The tempter or the sinner?
The expensive dinner
Bought by a man, for a girl young enough to be his daughter.
Common sense flung
Aside,
Along with his pride.
As a lamb to the slaughter
He traverses a path
That would make a cat laugh.
And what of the girl, who does strive
To keep alive?
(Though in the west,
One must confess
That it is more likely to be her “need”
For a new dress
That does her greed
Drive).
The tomb is ever near.
Perhaps it is this thought most drear
That leads a man, in later life,
To take to mistress or wife
A girl who will still
The fear that he is growing old
Though the charms
Of youthful arms, bought with gold
Can not a man save
from the cold grave.
