Girls sell flowers
Which, for a few hours
Make men smile
And forget all their regrets
For a while
In the flower’s sweet scent.
Though some may repent,
Come lonely hours
The pull of flowers
Will often tempt.
And a girl’s rent …
I am offering a free signed paperback copy of my recently released poetry collection, “Passing through: some thoughts on life and death”, Passing Through: Some thoughts on life and death: Amazon.co.uk: Morris, K: 9798284279151: Books. In order to be in with a chance of winning your free paperback copy, please answer the following question. Who wrote the novel “The Razor’s Edge” which was subsequently made into a movie?
Please send your answers to me at kmorris poet (@) gmail.com. The address is rendered in this manner in order to defeat spammers.
The first person to email me the correct answer will receive a signed copy of my book. Please note, there is only 1 free copy available.
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When my friend said, “your poetry is dark”.
I could have said, “should I pretend
That we don’t all end
In the stark dark, my old friend”.
But I smiled and whiled away more time
In drink. But now rhyme
Of you and me. and truth in poetry.
There is a kind of butterfly
Who alights at night
And brings pleasure for a time
To lovers of rhyme.
And these butterflies
They go with day,
Although they may
Be caught in rhyme
And live on
When they are gone.
As I sit thinking about poetry
I hear the birds calling to me.
I spend far too much time
Pondering on rhyme,
While the sun rises and sets
On my regrets,
So soon lost in the great maelstrom
Of whirling time.
Since returning to London on 22 April, I have recorded many of my poems on TikTok, https://www.tiktok.com/@kevinmorrispoet. You don’t have to have a TikTok account in order to view my videos.
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I leave the pub behind
And find
In the song of birds
The truth not heard
In the words
Of men
Who prate and hate.
So I listen to birds
And purifying rain
For there is no hate
In birds or rain.
Touching this tall old tree
I wonder what feels real to me:
This church of cold stone
Where people go to show their religiosity,
Or this rough bark
Warm from the spring sun.
It is the bark
That calls to my heart
And this gentle sun.
I long for the wet woods
Where the rainy breeze
Is full of flowers and leaves
And the damp earth
Speaks of death and rebirth.
I love the wood
When birds sing after rain.
I will surely die,
And Mother Nature will remain.
But we are forever part
Of nature’s great heart.
Her vital cycle of birth,
Death and good earth.
The clock shows the wrong time.
Sometimes a poem doesn’t rhyme.
I’ve heard people curse
At free verse,
But rhymes
Divine.
K Morris - Poet 