I may achieve a kind of immortality
Through my poetry.
But when I go
Above or below
Why should I care
For I will no longer be there
To know
.
Copyright: Kevin Morris.
A Kind of Immortality
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Tag Archives: immortality
I Find Dust
I find dust
In old books.
While in the summer churchyard
The birds twitter.
They have no bitter
Thoughts of dust.
The graves impassively stand.
I can not command
Death to stay his hand.
Yet some say we may
Achieve immortality.
Where we to achieve immortality
Should I put away Gray’s
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”?
The graveyard plot answers not
For the dead Are at peace.
Immortality
I may, for a while,
Smile,
Undress
And caress
A girl of easy virtue.
You may say
She is not mine.
True.
Though I may
Immortalise her in rhyme.
Cryogenics
A recent article in “The Daily Mail, entitled “Humans Frozen by Cryogenics Could Be Revived Using Stem Cells” http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-5462963/Humans-frozen-cryogenics-revived-using-stem-cells.html, reminded me of my poem, “Cryonics which is reproduced below:
“It is a will-o’-the-wisp, followed by the frightened or blind,
Who themselves bind
To the delusion, that the mist does not forever close
Over mouth and nose.
There are few posies for the departed,
Just an idea started
In the mind
Of those who would salvation find
In a deep freeze,
Designed to please
The ego
Of people who fear to go
Down that dark track
From whence none come back”.
“Cryonics” can be found in my collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind” http://moyhill.com/clock/.
Keats had his Nightingale
Keats had his Nightingale, which made him think of death.
I have my owl, which brings to mind Macbeth.
Tis a different name
For the same
Thing.
The morning birds sing
Replacing the owl’s cry
And I
Ponder on Keats, who is remembered still
And wonder will
My owl survive
Long after I am alive.
Cryonics
It is a will-o’-the-wisp, followed by the frightened or blind,
Who themselves bind
To the delusion, that the mist does not forever close
Over mouth and nose.
There are few posies for the departed,
Just an idea started
In the mind
Of those who would salvation find
In a deep freeze,
Designed to please
The ego
Of people who fear to go
Down that dark track
From whence none come back
Why Do I Write?
Why do I write
oft long into the night?
Is it for pure delight
at the craft
or am I daft?
I hear my clock’s chime.
Time
crouches near.
The year
is drawing to it’s close.
The writer knows
that words live on
long after he is gone,
so strives to leave a mark
on this world stark.
A light that glimmers
in the dark
Illumining the human heart.
(Upper Norwood, 27 November 2015).
K Morris - Poet 