I have uploaded my poem ‘The Poet On The Hill’ to ‘Places of Poetry.
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My poem ‘The Poet on The Hill’ is on ‘Place of Poetry’.
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ASSISTED SUICIDE # TRIGGER WARNING
This is a powerful poem. Whatever your views are on “assisted suicide”, I recommend reading Lorraine’s post. I am torn on the issue. As a liberal (with a small) I feel, in the final analysis that it is not the job of the state, society, the family (or anyone else) to tell (or pressure) another human being into taking what is, quite literally, a life and death decision. But, when a person is in extreme pain and wishes to die, I am not sure that I have the right to deny that “release” to the one who fervently wishes to escape from suffering. The whole issue of euthanasia has (quite naturally) been muddied by the horrendous activities of Nazi Germany. In the Third Reich those with mental or physical disabilities where killed or sterilised as “life unworthy of living”/”useless eaters”. Action T-4 casts a baleful shadow over the whole debate, and the issue splits people across party and other divides. Kevin
I HAVE POSTED THIS AGAIN BECAUSE SOMEONE WISHED TO READ IT. AS I COULD NOY FIND IT IN MY BLOG POSTS I HAVE COPIED IT FROM MY WORD DOCUMNT.
ASSISTED SUICIDE. (Mirror cinquains).
Slowly
They creep up on
My exhausted spirit,
The words “assisted suicide”,
Put there
By those
Who say you are a huge burden,
A drain on family,
“It’s your duty
To go.
We can’t
Care for you now,
You are too much for us,
It’s only right that you should go,
Go now,
Quickly.
We will take you to that good place,
Soon it will be over,
Suffer no more
My dear.”
“Your words
Confuse me so,
My mind can’t take it in,
My pain is great, yet still I want
To fight.
Give me
The chance to live despite the pain,
It’s MY life still to live,
Not yours to take,
Hear me.”
“Selfish
Your words…
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Time
I have long been fascinated by clocks and time itself and this is reflected in many of my poems. I am reblogging one such, “Time”, which first appeared here back in 2015. The clock in question still sits, in pride of place, on the bookcase in my living room and adorns the cover of my collection of poems, “My Old Clock I Wind and Other Poems”. Incidentally another clock (which sits on the dresser in my living room) appears on the front cover of my collection, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”.
The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop.
Can the Writing Gene be Inherited?
This is a very interesting question. As a child, my grandfather spent many hours reading to me which did, I believe implant in me a love of the written word. Our walks in the woods close to his home also developed in me a love of nature which does, I think manifest in some of my poetry. Likewise I had a wonderful school teacher, Mr Delacruz who had a store cupboard who’s shelves groaned under the weight of books. My grandfather’s love of literature and Mr Delacruz’s love of the art has been passed down to me. As to the question whether writers are born or made, I am wary of nailing my colours to the mast on this matter. In the past Marxist determinists said (or strongly implied) that the environment was responsible for almost everything in the shaping of the human personality. This deterministic outlook has, in some circles, been replaced by the equally deterministic perspective that its all down to genetics. Both views strike me as highly reductionist and it is, I suspect a complex mixture of nature and nurture that helps to determine whether a person becomes a creative, whether as an artist, poet or author.
Hello, SEers! Mae here with you today as we enter a new month. Happy first day of July!
In June, I raised the question “are writers born or made?” Today, I want to follow up with another question: can the writing gene be inherited?
Think about the Bronte sisters. Neither parent was a writer, though both were said to be extremely literate. All three sisters, plus their brother, played games of imagination as children, possibly cultivating their creative side while dreaming up fanciful places. My earlier post, Are Writers Born or Made, would point to this as their “trigger” moment—assuming the desire to write was dormant inside.
We also have brothers Alex and Evelyn Waugh, known for Islands in the Sun and Brideshead Revisited, respectively. Their father, Arthur Waugh was a biographer (Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Robert Browning), as well as a literary critic. Evelyn’s son, Auberon went…
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Flowers
Alone
I beautify
My home
With flowers
Who’s powers
Are as I.
Kevin Morris reading a new selection of his poems on Soundcloud
Poet Kevin Morris reading the following poems on Soundcloud:
Humourous Verse by Poet Kevin Morris on Soundcloud
I’ve uploaded several humourous poems to Soundcloud. You can view them below:
Book Promotions
My short story ‘Samantha‘ will be available for free in the Amazon Kindle Store from the 5th – 9th July, here for the UK and here for the US.
“Samantha tells the story of a young girl forced into prostitution in the city of Liverpool. Can Sam’s love for Peter, a man she meets in a nightclub, save her? Or will Sam end her life in the murky waters of Liverpool’s Albert Dock?
My book ‘The Suspect and Other Tales‘ will also be available for free from the 9th – 13th July, here for the UK, and here for the US.
Tales of the unexpected, ranging from stories of crime and vengeance through to ghostly happenings in an ancient mansion.
If you download and read ‘The Suspect’ and ‘Samantha’, please do consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or your website.
BY THE RIVER
A powerful poem by Lorraine.
Yesterday as we drove
Through a foreign land
Close yet far
I sensed a darkness
Mysteries held
An iceberg
Of former times
Beyond the concrete barrier
A river
That called many
And enticed a few
That plucked some from life
By force
That became a resting place for sorrows
Once turbulent
A place of killing
Of undoing
I see the traces
I hear the moaning of souls
I walk in the graveyard
And hear the river sing
Guest author: Kevin Morris ~ Raining
My thanks to Sue Vincent for hosting me on her website. Kevin
“I awoke to the rain
Drumming on my window pane.
Opening my lattice I let it in
The purifying water that washes away sin.
The hypnotic sound
Of rain falling all around.
All my life I have listened to the rain.
The same drumming
Of water coming
From the sky
Falling on you and I.
The rain has no end
But you and I my friend
May listen for a while
Smile
Then pass on by”.
![Lost in the labyrinth of my mind by [Morris, K.]](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51IICDd2chL.jpg)
“Raining” can be found in “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind“, A collection of poems about nature, love, and life in general, now available for Kindle.
About the author
I was born in Liverpool (UK) on 6 January 1969.I lost the majority of my eyesight at 18-months-old due to a blood clot.I am a braille user and have happy memories of leafing through “The Oxford Book of English Verse”…
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K Morris - Poet 