Soon the autumn moon
Will come
And autumn’s milder face
Will replace
The boiling summer sun.
Yet the poet sees
Autumn’s Fallen leaves
Broiled by summer’s sun
Long ‘Ere autumn
Is due to come.
A New Autumn (Working Title)
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Tag Archives: climate change
The Thunder Spoke
The thunder spoke
And I awoke
To heavy rain.
I lay awake
Pondering on lakes
And climate change.
I took pleasure
In rainy weather
As a child
But this wild
Storm warns
Of change.
Drought
Dry leaves hang
On waiting trees.
The dead litter
The cracked ground.
Our bitter
Harvest of drought.
Poet Kevin Morris Interviewed on the World Poetry Reading Series for 28 July 2022
On 28 July, I appeared On Vancouver Co-op Radio’s The World Poetry Reading Series https://www.mixcloud.com/VictorSchwartzman/world-poetry-cafe-july-28/.
During my interview, I discussed the recent heatwave in the United Kingdom and read my poem Melting Ice. In addition, I discussed the responsibilities of a poet.
My segment begins approximately 8 minutes into the podcast and runs for about 10 minutes.
I listened back to the show using Google Chrome, but other browsers should also work.
Children Make Waves
Children make waves
In paddling pools.
The present heatwave
Will not stay.
And sceptic fools
Continue their play
While home burns.
Some Civilisations Go Slow
Some civilisations go slow
In their decay
While others stay
But a short time.
Birdsong does not last.
And poets must rhyme
Of empires that pass
And fast climate change.
December Snow
A typical, December day.
The sun has stopped
Away,
And the temperature has dropped.
The forecasters say
There may
Be snow.
I well remember the December
Snow.
And playing on frozen pond.
But oh, so long Ago!
And I shall grow
Old. and remember December
Snow.
We count the cost
Once things are lost.
And the foolish, wishing to sunbathe,
Pray for the coming heatwave.
Dearth
Summers grow dry.
But sceptics deny,
And welcome grapes in England’s
Once green and pleasant land.
The watering can and hosepipe
Refresh the earth
Day and night.
There is a dearth.
For, I find
Within the sceptic’s mind
A different kind,
Of drout.
The Coming Gale
Last night the rain
Came,
And the wind
To
Which almost blew
Me off my human feet.
Windblown
I took refuge at home,
From the gale.
Sheep continue to speak
Of progress.
But the wise turn pale
For they know
That the gale
May blow
Humanity off it’s feet.
I Saw A Child
I saw a child
In a pram
And smiled
For I am
Always glad
To see
A happy
Child.
Then, I was half-sad
That I have
No children to leave behind.
But then my mind
Turned to climate change, and I
Was half-glad
That when I die,
I will have
None to leave behind.
K Morris - Poet 