Flowers in my mum’s garden
Bring to mind
A former time
When my grandfather grew roses.
I remember the scent
Of roses in his garden.
And my attempt
To make perfume.
In youth
Few engage with age.
And the truth
That roses,
Are gone so soon.
A young lady whose name is Alice
Lives in a place called Crystal Palace,
Where she works in a sauna
With my good friend Miss Warner.
But I’ve not yet met Miss Alice.
When a young lady named Leigh
Bestowed a soft kiss on me.
And her big boyfriend called Jack
Gave me a look most black,
I ran and climbed a tree!
Reluctant to leave the wind
I paused at my door,
For no man can be sure
When this fragile thing,
We call life, will end.
I was pleased to receive the below 5 star review of “Light and Shade, entitled “A fine Collection of Poetry”:
“Kevin’s collections of poems are impressive to say the least and he captures the seasons and life experiences well. The limericks show his quick wit. Would highly recommend.”
To read the original review please visit, https://www.amazon.co.uk/review/RAB9H7HSUADIE/. Or to purchase (or read a sample of) “Light and Shade” please go to https://www.amazon.co.uk/Light-Shade-serious-not-poems-ebook/dp/B08B4X3GVX/
The wind is getting up.
Should I put
Kipling aside
For his pride
In empire?
Should I apologise
And lower my eyes
For seeing empire
In all it’s complexity?
The Romans to Britain came.
Should Italians apologise
And lower their eyes
With shame?
You may say
“The Roman Empire
Was not all bad”.
But you would be mad
To put your head above the parapit
And admit
The same
Of Britain’s imperial past.
A certain class
Would look aghast
And cry “shame”
And label you
With a name
Untrue.
Mud sticks
And many men
Seal their lips.
Whilst a brave few
Say what they
Believe to be true.
When I said to my dear friend Pearl
“Do show me, does your hair naturally curl?”.
She turned bright red and said,
“Not on this sweet little head.
And Kevin, I’m not that kind of girl!”.
Standing at my open window
I scent the garden below,
Sweetened by this August rain.
Some have never seen
The garden made green
By rain.
But must,
inhale dust.
And black tarmac.
As ghosts they come
Often when the sun
Is burning.
And, when the sun
Does set,
Oft you will find
His mind
Turning,
To thoughts of regret.
One day
They
Will no longer come
And the sun
Will, forever set
On his regret.
Some readers may engage
With a yellowing page.
And vampire
And desire.
At school, I read freely
Of Kipling’s poetry.
No one told me
What my thought ought
To be.
Today there is an urge
To purge
His poetry.
Yet, in “Recessional”, we see
The fire of empire die.
They hector
And lecture.
While I,
And those like me,
Retreat into our poetry.
K Morris - Poet 